Mostly Questions About Butterflies

Mostly Questions About Butterflies

Mostly Questions About Butterflies My Creative Life Project My Creative Life was an Arts Council of Northern Ireland funded project run by Creative Lives.

Creative Lives is a registered charity that was established in 1991. We champion community and volunteer – led creative activity, and work to improve opportunities for everyone to be creative. In particular, we celebrate and promote people expressing themselves creatively with others, recognising the benefits this can bring.

My Creative Life was a poetry and photography project working with twelve community groups across Northern Ireland, four poets and a photographer.

Mostly Questions About Butterflies is the title of a poem written by Christine Synott from Black Box Projects. We really liked this concept and title for the publication – conjuring thoughts of butterflies flying throughout the poems, threading them together. Also, the otherworldly The 12 groups were: The Donaghadee Poetry Collective, YMCA 55+ Group, Camphill Community Holywood, Diversity Youth Belfast, Black Box Projects, Belfast Central Library Group, Fairholme Supported Living Belfast, Armagh Theatre Group, Holywood Library Group, The Scribblers Donaghadee Library, Derry Central Library Group and The Pink Ladies Cancer Support Group at The Gasyard Derry.

meaning of butterfly in Celtic mythology is Dealan – dè, meaning ‘brightness or lightning of the Gods’ and they are said to move between worlds and represent the human soul.

We hope you enjoy this publication and we would like to thank every soul that took part in the workshops and sent us in their beautiful work!

Seonaid Murray, Project Coordinator

The four poets were: Judith Thurley, Colin Hassard, Amy Louise Wyatt and Abby Oliveira, who facilitated brilliant poetry workshops which inspired the following work.

Our project photographer was Bernie McAllister who has really brought the project to life.

‘Mostly Questions About Butterflies’ was designed and illustrated by Elly Makem.

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Haiku Snowy day in the woods a warlock stomps along has he seen my footprints?

Paul Howland Mostly Questions About Butterflies Hi Butterfly, Where did you come from?

Where do you live?

You come from somewhere.

You like to visit gardens.

Where did you get your beautiful colours?

What is it you like about flying?

What do butterflies eat?

You seem to rest on trees.

Your colours are like the rainbow.

I would like to know what butterflies eat?

Mother I love you mother You lie there And hardly know me Maureen Robinson

Christine Synnot Ghosts Ghosts are everywhere They pass through us everyday as we pass through them David Jackson 4

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Things I Love I love taking photos of flowers, getting close ups on the colours, feeling at one with nature; looking through binoculars up to the moon, up to the sky, way over the boats going by; travelling on the steam train to Derry, Belfast and Whitehead; I wonder can we go again?

I love day trips on the bus to Newcastle, going to the amusements, sipping a coffee and having lunch.

Love is when someone cares And when someone wants to share Love is when we are all there

sitting outside with people enjoying spring and summer and adventures over Easter. colouring in – I just finished illustrating another book!

Love is when someone brings roses And when someone proposes Love is when somebody just noses Jeffrey Roberts, Sean McClements and Christine Synnot 6

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Hound – Dog

Reminisce

The Elves were going to see Elvis Dancing and Singing all the way to A palace in Graceland You’re nothing but a hound – dog

Something got me started. When I was young, I got a big red bike for Christmas.

There were Flares, Diamontes, Black Shiny quiff And my good friend Gary was dancing At The Black Moon disco.

One time, I rode out to my cousin Anne in Killyleagh, past beautiful flowers, with the sound of music

The Elves went wow The music was awesome The King is in the building A thank you very much!

in the air. I’d give it all up, if only you could promise me a miracle.

Amanda Jones

Inspired by Moya Hamilton

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Not Yeti Hear the mighty roar which fills the forest, you will know him by the breath he leaves behind.

Summoned to the woods by nature’s mighty call.

Primal, visceral, haunting.

Alone.

The smell of the thing burns the nostrils, makes the eyes water.

Retching, you’ve found the remains of the Abdominal Snowman.

Robert Kane

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The Last Word

Childhood Memories of Happy Times i. Telephone House, Belfast Granda was from Ardglass; a lithographic printer by day and a telephone operator by night.

While the German planes bombed Belfast, Granda single–handedly manned Telephone House.

For many years, I’d hold one of his busy hands as we walked to St. Mary’s Primary School. His morning, like all our mornings, started with Radio Erin.

The trouble with always having the last word is that in time you will become the last person standing.

But is a glimpse of immortality worth the transient gratification of one pyrrhic victory after another?

Before death releases you unmourned.

John McAndrew

Darkness Into light ii. St. Colmcille’s Parish, Ballyhackamore Twenty nine years of age, walking down the aisle, where Sam McCallan was waiting for Fr. Sean Murphy to join his hand to mine. After, at the Stormont Hotel, my brother, Brendan Rice, played vinyl records as my lovely mother and father danced the night away.

The tape of the ceremony, with all those smiling faces alive and well, I still have and play.

Inspired by Margaret McCallan

They say we’re better together, yet I feel so all alone I just want to know whether, I can do this on my own I want to open up my heart, not leave you with my soul Put me back on the path, for I know I’ve dug this hole No, I don’t want to say goodbye as I stare at this blank page All the times I made you cry, please release me from my cage I’m well aware that I am loved, but am I too blind to see?

Help me find another way out of this pain and misery So when all I see is this rain, as the sun it shines so bright, please take me by the hand and from darkness into light.

Joe McGinley

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An Age – Old Nod to Nature I’m leaving more of the lawn to wild, convincing myself it’s my nod to nature and not my nature’s nod to age.

I’m expanding my wild flower meadow, promoting weeds to plants in baptismal ceremonies of biblical proportions.

The birds and bees love it and so does my back.

I’m discarding chemical solutions as a weapon of war against Nature, putting away the rake, giving the gardening a break and not just for my sake.

I’m saving the world, changing my allegations, becoming a soldier for Mother Earth.

Turning my back on the ‘neat and tidy’, the corralled, the clipped and variety.

My dwindling energies to my new found piety; a devotee of unmanicured moss at all cost.

I’m being rewarded with ‘plants’ that cure the aches and pains I did endure.

And the beauty of grass swaying in a breeze as I sit and sip at my retiree’s ease, my abandoned Husqvarna rusting in my savannah.

What’s in Your Pocket I recall it once again, that noise long ago, A slight clink or crackle to my sensitive lobes.

Could it be paper or metal or something more unique?

But whatever it is – of it you never speak.

Through the years I’ve wondered, could it be hair within a locket?

Sleepless nights spent wondering just what was in your pocket.

I longed to slip my hand between its lining cover, As my mind portrayed images of what I might discover.

I hoped some day you’d show us the treasures that you carried.

But years passed by, we all grew up and left home as we married.

Now you’re gone, those memories keep playing in my mind.

And today through my tears your secret horde I’ll find.

For I have been designated to go through your trouser pockets.

The first thing that I found were some old betting dockets.

Then I found the treasure that through the years you sorted; Tokens of your seven children, that leaves my poor heart sore.

Little items that were broken or we had cast aside, You stored inside your pocket and carried them with pride.

Dymphna Ferran

Malachi Kelly

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An Amputee Some things you don’t get over – they’re more like an amputation you learn to live with And so now in the month of April I’m prepping you for theatre But I don’t believe in anaesthetic – I need you to feel this as I remove myself from your life It won’t be a shock when I leave – I’ve been on a collision course for years and years And although from time to time there may have been glimmers of hope – all that singing and dancing you saw was how I eloquently circled the drain Thomas P.K. Healy AI I look back to industrial factory flames That eliminated the need for labouring hands Then I look forward to artificial intelligent creativity That eliminated the need for creative poets Am I a steward or Luddite? Is it a friend or foe?

I or AI? Mark Brownlee 16

Poetic Frustration I feel knotted, stuck, frustrated as I read these prize winning poems that read like mathematical equations that one has to delve into deeply and lose oneself in order to find oneself to grasp the ungraspable the meaning. I apologise for my ignorance.

Like that young girl in Maths class trying to solve a problem, answer a question, halted by that feeling of stupidity, as she is completely confused and tortured by her dimwittedness as she seeks to see what she can’t see.

If these winning writings are wonderful, why is it that I do not have the brilliance to comprehend, am I incapable, is the reading of it meant to confuse and torture the reader, is there a trick to it, a missed training?

Must I analyse every single, little or large word for meaning, meaning that must be found deep below the surface?

Must I dive, for I am an above surface understander?

I need forthrightness to understand this prose, I want to see and experience the beauty of the poetry without having to work analyse, seek analyst, hunt analyst, search analyst, add divide subtract fractions... in order to feel the joy of this verse.

I am lost because the prose has lost me, the words have lost me, the poet has lost me, why must I try so hard to grasp a prize–winning poem?

I just do not get it. But thank God for Seamus, Colin and Hewitt.

Sandra McDonnell – Hill 17

Summer Road Trip The road trip started in Rosslare; waving Ireland, sun and hay fever goodbye. We settled on board for the overnight voyage of discovery. Arrived and snaked off the ship to our destination – and in search of the sun again. Cars scattered in different directions to reach their goal.

Summer It was the first time in France when I had French bread with pesto and soft cheese We saw the Tour de France and I collected shiny souvenirs being thrown to the crowd in the street Then we went to Disneyland and dad and I went on the Star Wars ride which I loved... but dad didn’t

Seeking the Tour was the first objective – perched by the roadside waiting the entourage and collecting multiple free gifts which proceeded the growing anticipation of the guest of honour – Whooooosh, Whooooosh, Whooooosh!

30 seconds later it was all over – but what a buzz. Now the camp awaited.

After the holiday we came back to Belfast very tired and needing a long rest. But we couldn’t wait

For the next event – Disney World – was this wet weather ever going to stop? Even the baguette was suffering, no longer rigid but now a limp piece of dough. Kids enthralled with heart stopping ride after ride after ride – too much for us older folk!

Back to base with wobbly legs and thoughts that we may have had a heart attack – now seeking rest and relaxation.

to see the family and tell them about what we did, what we ate, and all the amazing places

Not to be. World Cup Final next – bars and restaurants full!

Why did France have to win!? No rest tonight or tomorrow; still looking for the sun – have we really left it in Ireland?

Sarah McConnell

Time to go home – back to the boat and an overnight trip again.

Ireland looms up on the horizon – bathed in sunshine – the hay fever has returned – maybe we should just stay on the boat and go back to France.

Billy McConnell 18

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A Woman Without A Name

Plant These Poems Plant these poems in your baggage before you walk nonchalantly through airport customs, taunting the gloomy dogs and snarling guards; declaring your genius, your madness, your pockets full of memories.

Plant these poems in parks watered by 200 days of rain; where they’ll sprout and tempt the bees, the birds and, of course, the butterflies. Ask your questions to the universe but don’t wait for answers as the seasons are already changing.

Plant these poems in libraries, theatres, cafés, care homes; in unexpected places where beauty is harder to find. But it will be found by those looking carefully enough under tea cups and pillows, in record sleeves and pockets of the departed.

I have always been told – I have a loud laugh – Some day it will be recorded: The way, the how, the nature of it.

I have always believed – I am a romantic at heart – I love the shape of love, The candle – lit dinners, the music, the dancing.

You might see a sporty woman – A woman without a name.

Appearing quiet, until I get to know you – My colleagues and my friends.

Ruth Fitzgerald

Plant these poems in the topsoil of creative minds.

Water with a bucket of hope that new shoots will rise.

New shoots that won’t need to strain for light because the light will emanate from them, guiding whoever needs to consume the leaves.

Colin Hassard 20

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Blackthorn Winter

Steps to Freedom

One of eight Chieftain trees, She is called Mother of the Wood, Keeper of Dark Secrets.

Blood red sap Rising and falling in her veins, Strong sturdy timber, Heavy Heartwood Groves of concentric ring, Layers of history hidden by her coat of bark, Dark twisted branches.

Clouds of snow white stars, A sweet heady perfume Of musk scented flowers Drifting through the air.

Beware her long spiky thorns If poisoning you want to avoid.

Berries burnished rich, dark, purple, blue Picked at the first hoarfrost When the Cailleach the ‘veiled one’ Ruler of Winter, windstorms, ice and snow Pounds her Blackthorn stick upon the ground; Drumming winter into being, Claiming her domain, Wielding her power over life and death: She is older than the earth Older they say than time itself.

Ambiguity is the death of freedom.

It pulls me away from the place I want to be: which is two steps to the right – dancing, twirling, observing.

Painting the world with words.

Painting the world with images.

I find myself lost in thought, with words, black and white words, ugly words, spilling out – overwhelming me with constant chatter that too much space creates.

But I need that space. I need to be free – to dance and twirl and observe all of the beauty around me.

But which direction should I go, can I go?

Two steps to the right, two steps closer to somewhere.

Where?

Where is that?

Allyson Klein

Gail Johnston 22

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water under the bridge i.

Grainan Fort Strathfoyle Knockalla Park Inch Island

ii. from a distance the missing person, knowing he has only gone and done it.

Chapel Road City walls Star Factory Guild Hall The Diamond

the White Chapel City Cemetery I couldn’t make it: the wake the funeral the burial.

Kinnego Bay Fanad Head Singing Kettle The Downings

a month’s mind made me realise we need to come home.

Rest in peace knowing your daughter is being raised where she comes from.

Cityside Waterside Over and over – Always Sandinos.

I close my eyes and meet you there…

Hannah Eynon

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Hera’s Poem

Arthur

The Queen sits high Foresworn by Rex, Alone in hurts and cares.

Standing strong for women all – A heart rendered unfair.

On an island, a man slumbers.

Hands clasping a longsword on his chest, Like a figure in a country churchyard, You’d think him carved from stone, Until you see the slow rise and fall of his chest.

For women all, we are in limb – Hopes and dreams still shared.

Yet judgement always sits Upon soft heads, entangling myths, Which lie upon this web.

In his dreams, he battles still, Wielding the sword gifted to him by the Lady.

Battle rage scorches his soul, A memory of betrayal, A scheme long planned that climaxed on the day his own son ran him through.

Bobby Wadey

His breathing quickens.

A hand closes, gripping the hilt more tightly.

Somewhere, another battle rages, And like an old warhorse, his nostrils flare at the scent of blood.

It is time.

Kerry Buchanan

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Journey of Life

St. Brigid

Just me. Only me.

Open, rippling heart.

Overworked and Underpaid!

Burdened heavy with the weight – betwixt and between:

Underneath a sky of flames: Relating. Connecting. Mending.

A People Person

Nature’s guiding light floods through my lens.

Escalation of emotions rushing overhead.

I am Radical!

An Activist!

They are not listening!

Youth blazes in my soul, though my body Burns like coal.

Complex / Sisterhood / Protection

Orion’s Belt sparkles in the black blanket of heavens: Channelling my vision from day–dreaming to living.

Inside out time.

I woosh around, all beat and sound through the salty air.

Leaning lyrically, longing for change.

An inward swirling sanctuary consumes me –

Down the street to the lighthouse

Faith flies on butterfly wings.

Ether diffuses. A sense of calm.

the friendly sea floats around in me: full of life and death. Contrapuntal – the Mermaid / Daughter / Sister / Lover / Friend

My unmoving peace.

Zoe McGrath

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Is Ready.

Seonaid Murray

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The Three Crones Up on the hill by the faerie well Three lives diverged to sup, To cup from the waters of faerie spell And wish for a dram of luck.

These forgotten daughters drank and blathered Of empty purse and faces haggard.

“There’s nothing left for us but death, A sweet release from rattled breath.”

And Áine Queen of Fae did hear, Their tales of woe and losses dear And to the trio she appeared, Where six dark eyes looked up afear’d, Til heartsome words in gentle tone She promised each “a house of stone, A dresser shelf with China speckled Jars of fruits all dried ’n pickled.”

And gave to each ten silver pieces, Filling up their empty purses.

“I bless you daughters, Crones of Woe From now, your autumn years may flow, Without the burdens time bestowed, That bowed your back and moved you slow.

“The silver tithe is fairy rent, Collected from each dark day spent And when your silver has all gone This faerie bond will be undone, And death will take you by the hand, To lead you to the other land.”

A swirling mist descended fast Then vanished to reveal three paths, At the end of each a cottage stood, Three perfect homes of stone and wood.

Deidre slowly spraighled down one loanen Crabbit from her days of roamin’ Memories wrapped tight like a winter’s cloak, That she happed up for comfort, but was misery soaked And her Burdens dragged like a beasty yoked, Her heavy, heavy load.

She stoked the fire and ate the food, And sat upon regrets to brood, She worried all the food may spoil, So before a month she ate it all.

Careless too with wood and oil, Kettle always on the boil.

And to the town she went A silver coin in hand.

She stoked the fire and ate the food And sat upon regrets to brood.

Kate G Smeltzer

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Ulysses They call me Ulysses, intelligent, a hero journeying home after the Trojan war.

Through dangerous seas we sail, where listening to gods is necessary for survival.

Their guidance must be heeded.

Circe warns me about the sirens, monsters disguised as alluring women who entice with irresistible melodies, planning to kill their prey.

So they cannot hear beguiling songs, I fill the sailors’ ears with beeswax.

These shipmates tie me to the mast, held fast, floating over summertime sea.

I long to plunge into the waves, to swim towards island bliss, to kiss sweet lips.

The crew row harder, faster, faster, they want me to stay free. My life is saved, I steer them on. A lesson learned at sea: appearances oft bring treachery.

END OF DAY A shivering wind hits the sighing reeds and heralds the end of the fading day. Yet, flowering still in the limpid bay, are the watermarks made where lake trout feed.

As the colour goes from the ebbing sky, the silvery evening thickens and spills over the line of the indigo hills, clouding the light where the soft waters lie.

Starlit, in the melting tones of the night, only moths and quickening bats are out. They lance the shadows as they move about, cutting the dark in sharp, elusive flight.

From a wetland rim comes a lone bird cry, that echoes away in the chill, cold air: It is the haunting note of wild despair, keening “Why, oh why, did you have to die?”

Sandra Griffiths

Like twilight’s brief ember, this life is just a transient, cobwebby, wind–blown thing. Fragile as the gauze of a mayfly’s wing, we are all mere bubbles on earth’s rough crust.

Jane Wright 32

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My Life I stir each morning at 07:00am when the central heating starts – I am thankful for being alive and able to get out of bed.

As I pour myself a cup of black tea; as I stir sliced banana into my porridge I am thankful to be able to provide for myself.

I am thankful for the feeling of warm clothes offsetting this cold morning, As I dress myself with my jacket and shoes and think about going out.

Sometimes I think about going into town if the sun is shining. I look up at the trees stirring in the breeze. I look at the sky and hope for no rain.

And I am thankful to be able to walk or to drive where I want to go.

The days are good when I have places to be and friends to meet.

The weeks, the months are easy when I have companions to share them with.

The years are memories: good and bad, according to my days and weeks.

I am thankful for being alive, being able to connect with friends. Life is a journey – and I am grateful to those I meet who make my days, weeks, months enjoyable.

Bill Nesbitt

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Another Day In The World

CSSM Poem

I wake up at 8am.

Another day in the world.

Each morning I rouse at 9 to the sound of my alarm.

I am thankful for family and friends.

I make my breakfast: Porridge, fruit and freshly squeezed orange juice.

I start my day with a POP! As I butter my toast, I am thankful for a full belly.

I am grateful for nourishment.

I am grateful for the clothes I have to dress myself.

I am thankful for warmth and happiness As I wrap my toasty coat around my shivering body.

As I pull my dressing gown around my body And go into the garden –

I remember Portrush beach! The sun dancing on the water.

I look to the skies, I look to the people around me –

I sit on the garden seat, look up at the sky, admire the plants around me…

And I am thankful for CSSM.

And I am grateful.

Tess Hughes

City Skyline I pull my coat over my body To keep me warm.

Step into the city!

I feel like I am in New York!

The days are good, there are kids on the beach.

I remember the two weeks spent helping children…

I think about how many years I have been part of CSSM And I am thankful for the time I have had with them.

Life is good when you are surrounded by young people.

I am grateful for this opportunity.

Louise Wilson

I look up at the skyline, At the buildings around me.

And wonder: who inhabits them?

Judy Ludlow 36

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Lady in Waiting I wake every morn at 6.30am! I have to get up!

I am grateful for a new day.

I start my day with two cups of tea (with milk of course).

I can’t wait to have my Weetabix! More milk and extra sugar!

I am thankful for a full tummy: I know that I am lucky, For there are people who are hungry.

I am appreciative of my warm clothes, for everything I have, For the ability to enjoy life.

I pull on my coat, my scarf, my boots to keep me nice and cosy.

I go outside – I am on my way to have coffee with Roberta.

I arrive at Roberta’s house, I look at the buns and the cakes And I am incredibly thankful.

The days can feel long. Day by day…

But the weeks and the months, they go too quickly.

The years speed by and then you realise just how old you are.

Yet I am thankful for being alive and everything I have.

Life is going so fast, sometimes I feel like I am being left behind: But I’m really grateful for living so long.

Wilma Hamilton

Parts of my Life I thank the Lord for another day. I hope the day will bring peace.

Each morning I have a cup of tea and two digestives.

I don’t have a ‘proper’ breakfast, I’m never that hungry – Instead, I’m thankful to get up and do what I have to do.

I appreciate the warmth of my clothing as I pull a hat over my head. I’ll go to my neighbour’s house for a coffee and chat: I’ll look around me, I’ll look over at Wilma and laugh – I am thankful for the knock each night from my friend.

The days are lengthy. The weeks, the months, the years Go too quick and leave me wondering where they went.

Yet I am thankful for life. For life is what you make of it – And you don’t always make the right choices.

I am grateful for the family I was given: my parents, grandparents, Friends I have met along the way, throughout the parts of my life.

Ellen Neill

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A Recipe For Friendship I want to bake happiness, joyfulness.

So, I knead in love, Whisk in days out, Add a pinch of kindness.

I throw in a generous amount of sea–swimming, And a little laughter with friends.

Fiona Hull

How To Make A Friendship Cake ☼ Throw in some love. ☼ Throw in some laughter. ☼ Throw in some family time. ☼ Throw in happiness. ☼ A pinch of sunshine, And two scoops of ice–cream. ☼ Stir in days on the beach. ☼ Knead in cuddles. ☼ Bake until golden.

This is the end of my friendship poem.

Amanda Jones

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I Lift My Pen I lift my pen to write.

What shall I write?

Does the pen feel the sorrow Of the sad news I convey?

Does the dark blue stream flow More easily if I am writing good news?

Do I myself really enter into The feeling of heartache?

Is my friendship such as it truly feels And silently conveys – My deep feeling of love in their joy, Or anguish for their sorrow?

Can I sit silently holding their hands – The warmth of my love for them In touch only?

Silence, they say, is golden.

Joe’s comforter’s said too much.

May I know when to speak, Or, silently shed a tear: Only then I become a true friend.

Helen Barbara

Jennifer Leslie

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The Light Running through the alleyway…

Panting, Sweating, Scared.

One thing keeps me going…

The thought: That at the end of this tunnel There are rays of light.

I shove the scared me aside – I journey to the end – The stars appear…

All in good time.

Alexis Ify Ekwueme Time Waits For No One I cannot be the only one who has no clue about where I am heading, nor what I intend to do.

But time will wait for no one, as the days pass so rapidly.

One thing I can control: keep trying and never give up.

Tiwalade Olatunbosun 44

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escaping home i was bored in the house & i wanted to go out so i text my friend & she took me outta that house Andreia Sousa

a wste of tme she wntd us 2 pull up 2 minz i sd

my bad yo brb bunsn my dad callin me 2 go hme my bad – – – cya Samuel Olatunbusun

we wz abt 2 pull up & thn I gta txt nt 2 pull up anymr sch a wste of tme

hey, r we ok?

David Ogbeda

i contemplate textin u my phn shakin in my hnd ik i’ll regret it if i don’t

txt pm @6 i wll g / t tsco & by som stff thn I wll mt u @ prk

… sent Thandie Soppo Nsue

Mustafa Waleed 46

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I Duff my Hat for Her…

escapin’ misery

Carried and nurtured me, Took care and provided, Channelled my energy toward greatness with no atom of complaint.

All smiles…

cn u pck me dad? yh y tho? it’s rainin’ ah ok thnx ly

Oh!!! My Mother!

How I love you so.

Michelle Eguaogie

Mohamed Nayel – Altayeb

Born 2: ‘HAIII :3 <3’ / Forced 2: ‘Nice to meet you: hand shake’ HII

at 2:00am

IT WAS GR8 Cing U! 2DAY!

at 2:01am

OLD FRIEND I MET 4 THE FIRST TIME

at 2:02am

THANK U FOR OUR FATED MEETING

at 2:03am

:(blushing emoji):

at 2:03am

HOW MUCH I WISH WE HAD EARLIER MET

at 2:04am

Michelle Eguaogie 48

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The Cooking Experience As I was relaxing by the fire, My husband telephoned me.

“I hope you are not too busy my darling, We’re having guests for tea!”

I shot up like a rocket, straight out of my chair.

This sudden surge of adrenaline, was more than I could bear.

I began to chop and grate and cook and fry, like a ninja in its prime, onions, garlic, ginger, chillies, and the air began to chime...

The spices filled the neighbourhood as they wafted through the air, It was really quite embarrassing But I was too happy to care.

They were a lovely, bubbly lot to feed, Whilst I brought in course after course, Their reactions were quite dramatic, Unsurprisingly predisposed.

One stood upright and bolted to, I still do not know where, Another was hyperventilating, and gasping for air.

Still, they helped themselves to more and more, with a defiance and a flair, I thought I heard someone burping, Some hiccups filled the lair.

My worried spouse phoned the next day, “They’ve all gone AWOL!” But they were spotted soon after, cooling in the pool.

Usha Lakshminarayanan Thorny Rose Love is like a thorny Rose: Sweet smelling bliss That feels like a tender kiss.

A thorny rose that cuts the layered heart – No–one can know the pain that’s felt when the bleeding starts.

A heart filled with love that’s endless and pure, I know it’s real, that’s for sure.

I swim with you into clear blue eyes Of heavy waves that bring peaceful sighs.

You are my serious love, a thorny rose – What’s left of me is for you to hold.

Julie Nangle

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Because I didn’t rhyme he asked What made me a poem?

I wanted to tell him that my music came in the middle of my lines instead of the end I wanted him to know my sudden change from sadness to relief to happiness – was poetic that I wrote in pictures that even my title was me being carried on the choppy waves The Layers of Creativity

that the beat of this tiny lyrical heart was da – duming in every verse how the way I held my head high in a sea of alliteration made me a poem and knew I wasn’t understood – but continued to sing, to sing, to sing regardless

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and the people who read me – who couldn’t quite put into words what had changed in them

I’ve layers of creativity that go right to my core.

Textures, prints and patterns are the things that I live for.

Etching, sketching, linocuts; hours and hours spent drawing.

Beading, weaving, collographs are where I find life’s meaning.

I’ve layers of creativity that go right through my bones.

From collage and silversmithing, to painting harbour stones.

by the time they reached my end

Photography and pottery and poetry combined.

These layers of creativity ensure my peace of mind.

Amy Louise Wyatt

Leanne Dunwoody 53

Bon Voyage

On Our Way

Off to Gay Pariee I went – A journey on a bus in haste To see, a sight to behold, The great metal structure, Known as the Eiffel Tower.

A scientific conquest, Built by a genius.

Soaring high above The Parisian skyline, Its mighty presence Overlooking monuments Of the city, 1050 feet high.

It started unexpectedly on Mother’s Day as we explored the area ourselves.

It gained momentum with much more speed than any of us thought possible.

The experts told us in no uncertain terms where we were headed.

Next stop is Montmartre The Artist’s Quarters Where creativity abounds.

These budding artists Fighting for attention And offering to paint your portrait.

I wow at their brilliance: Art is a gift to behold.

I trembled as I climbed the steps To the 2nd floor.

It made me dizzy – I was in a tizzy.

I realised for the first time I had a fear of heights.

I won’t be climbing The Eiffel Tower again.

Next time I’ll take the lift.

Now time To sit and ponder Sip an iced coffee On the Champs–Élysées

54

They named the starting point, but could not guarantee the destination – just an estimated point of arrival and the mode of travel to get there.

So we are all on board, unsure if it’s a train, a rickety car, or a soaring plane.

And people watch.

Off to Gay Pariee I went.

It could change into any one of these, at any time, but at present we feel like we are on foot, stumbling through a muddy field with possible landmines.

Rosemary Gallagher

Millie Rotherham 55

THE SECRET INGREDIENT IS…THE LOVE

DREAM SHOP It’s early morning. My mother hums ‘That’s Amore’ by Dean Martin as she prepares her first batch of scones.

I can smell the treacle, can almost feel it running down my chin.

The clock ticks as we share the work, sprinkling raisins into the mixture, eating each little brown piece of fruit that falls.

Bread is rising, each one taking its own shape, a mix of golden brown – the smell is breath–taking.

Grandfather is engrossed in the task of preparing his pipe; rubbing the tobacco between crooked fingers, the flame twinkling as he lights the precious contents, the passing smoke arouses others as they take in the intoxicating odour.

In the background, the gentle sultry sound of the saxophone, the player lost in his own thoughts as he sways to the music.

My grandfather rocking to and fro in his chair as he sips his tea and eats his crumbling scone.

Breidge Doherty

The yellow stable door is half open – Will I just sneak a peak?

What lies inside is a mystery But curiosity draws me closer.

The scents of coffee, baking, logs, a turf fire Arouse the mystery of what lies inside; I’m halfway there, Now the latch is undone.

I hear the chatting, banter and joy from within, Giggling, talking, the buzz from inside.

I’m now juking in: Cakes of many colours, scones of many shapes, Candy jars of sucking sweets from clove rocks to brandy balls.

Oh My God those whipped ice–creams and their various toppings!

Sparkly rainbow flamboyant sprinkles, Bouncy brilliant big beds of marshmallow, The secret ingredient is The Love.

Like Breakfast at Tiffany’s Each visit is an unforgettable occasion To eat, drink and be very merry.

Sure all food and drink consumed here contain no calories; The special and only ingredient is The Love.

I can resist everything but temptation!!!

Mary Harrigan

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had we not seen for ourselves our forebears forbade by law the killing of any of the litany of white butterflies:

that marsh fritillary who spirited herself into the church: tiny ballerina, she bourrée’d her bewildered way on thin air over our heads,

the small white; the large white; green–veined white; black–veined white; cryptic wood white;

her wings all stained glass & light as she reached the priest & lit on the child’s coffin –

white ermine moth; common white wave; clouded silver; ghost moth; &, most exquisite angel among moths: the white plume –

(this, only minutes after that dog we saw trying and trying to get into the church as if he brought an urgent message & before the skylark poured her soulfelt libation upon us as we walked behind in slow procession

& now i remember of course that unforecast crash of thunder shriek of mourners shock of sudden hard summer hail & rainbow upon rainbow)

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– had we not seen these things we might not have understood all these meandering years later why, on this island just five centuries ago

for lo they are the souls of children taken form

deirín Dé, féileacáin, pili pala, balafenn, tykki Duw spirit condensed into flutter and wisp, they flit from the other world into this; come again, to find and comfort their mother.

Judith Lowans Thurley

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SWAN Harriet dabbled her fingers in the icy lake water where two swans shimmered in the dusk.

Beyond the trees, light gilded the front of the house as servants lit candles for her engagement ball.

“You shouldn’t do that.” Susanna said, “They might attack you. Swans could break your arm you know.”

Harriet glanced at her sister. Susanna sat on a stone bench, shawl carefully arranged, a leather–bound book open on her knee, although she couldn’t possibly see to read.

She made an artful tableau, though there was nobody near them.

Susanna always lived in the hope that one day, a rich handsome man would notice her and she ensured she was always prepared.

“We should go in”, she said.

Harriet looked back at the house, the grand house where she would soon be mistress.

Large, comfortable, castellated like a prison.

“Not just yet…”

The swans gleamed, whiter than ever.

The house loomed. Harriet’s stomach lurched.

Once she entered that house, she knew she would suffocate.

She would not go in, she told herself. Instead, she would stay here.

She would stay with the swans. She would trail her hands in the cold water and watch them glide for all eternity.

And if one attacked her? Then she would forever be known as the girl whose arm had been broken by a swan.

Anne Harris

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IT’S IN THE DETAIL I see card in every colour: blue, green, yellow, purple and pink are only a few.

I see hearts, stars, butterflies, and more, themes galore to explore.

Am I dreaming?

Crafting is my safe place.

My distraction is my creation.

In my own world escaping the chaos in my mind, delighted by what I create.

In my shop I’m selling cards and all things crafty, keep me in mind if you have a birthday.

My cards are handmade and come with this message: Warning!

This card may be contagious.

A smile may appear upon your face or, in some cases, a tear in your eye.

IS IT I LORD? Your love and selflessness Swells my heart like the ocean.

I hear you calling In the night.

Is it I, Lord?

Do you speak To merely me?

What can I do, Lord?

I am willing If you lead me.

I gaze lovingly towards you: Yearning, Thirsty, My face warm As it rests upon your light.

How can I Serve you, Lord?

How can I Hold your people In my heart?

Is my heart enough To show the people Even a smidgen of your love?

My heart burns With love and pride, Longing to be with you.

Peace embraces me.

Here I am Lord!

In you I trust.

Send me.

Show me.

Lead me.

I go…I go…

Claire Peoples

Michelle Crawford 62

63

MY MOON BLASTING 6.9 AT LEAST ROCKET SHIP If 2+1 really equals 6.9 at least in my present creative world then believe me something big has been going on in my before now life and you know what big fella I’m damned sure it’s playing out as I scribble words on the theatre apron of my inner life which keeps writhing un–writhing so it does I’m staring at a powerful Bendix through the loaded laundry glass porthole at the spinning universe of people I’ve met or washed or known or read about all the turned–out Kleenex clinging tissue sodden pocket – emptied conversations I’ve ever been party to the fluff clogged longings lodged in the filter every single scent I’ve tasted on skins inhaled minds touched by inside – out picture thoughts in the tub – sploshing mighty suds white Tide agitation plunging to the clang of a thousand alarm clocks on tin big lad

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I sigh pour a coffee take five light a feg cat nap ahhhhhhh

but I’m eternally rattling on the clacking nine minutes past six express rip roaring with decibels multiplying vying for elbow rail space to write about the flash back lighted faces in the windows of houses the pigeon loft back return blank stares and twitches of travellers in other coaches on other lines going other ways pal the fumes of ozone are killing me mate sometimes we’re t ot ally out of b alance and my whole bockety train rocks with lack of sleep and desperation on the silver steel melting icicle rods on the stones ballast bed of forever – I laugh and cry ‘Hello’ and ‘Welcome’ I’m tellin you to shadow shapes real as people figures I have almost known might have known think I should remember have met some place or not I’m not messing with your head I’m waving away – but themuns don’t see me or they’re sleeping like Baals – maybe I’m some other me in the wild somewhere else of their want to be minds but hey I am the maestro that’s 65

in the gleam yellow dawn of my pollen whin world where one plus two add up to six point nine at least in the buzz–crazy fecund tadpole pond leg growing tail losing REM of my dreams in the dark well of my galvanised rinsed bucket night world I scream – write future orbits through the universe on my

Think Pad just imagine us all on my Moon

Blasting 6.9 at Least Rocket Ship and my long long vapour trail Jim Simpson

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67

THE ASSIMILATION

THE SEAHORSE PATH

Her severed face contorts in grief, compassion warned away through jagged rocks of broken teeth, her shipwrecked frown beneath the hostile tentacles of hair that hide her sunken eyes.

Out of the window I look, imagine how my ideal garden will be visualize vaguely, rough outline ... connect the good bits, obliterate the weeds when my soul escapes out of the window and dances in patterns, flexible shapes pulling my eyes in all directions blurring the edges, mixing the colours

The matted tendrils lair defensively upon her like a haggard Kraken waking from the wild tomb of the ocean.

Her fingertips gathering the pennies creeping through the bars of social strata from the eyes of passers–by.

She watches me approach her, a broken mirror grieving in the habit of grim future, grown accustomed to the fractured blur of feeling drunken boots on human stains.

And yet, today, in the softest tone of a complaint that hardship might yet let her keep, this former mother smiles at me, her light not yet asleep.

Their communal desire to cloak her flotsam bones under the lye of social acceptability.

Somehow she still gives thanks to the streetlights for some cold, distant hearing on the sin of vanity in these supposedly more humanistic terms

My body takes over, unused muscles groan at the weight of the concrete slabs, buckets of stones, digging and levelling over days and weeks and months Now, it is as I want it to be body and soul reconnected, contented with in by

the making of the path

the magical seahorse path.

Florence Forbes

Mark McGrath 68

69

EVERYONE MUST GRIEVE I’m chasing a breeze that carries dead leaves away from this cold grieving heart.

African Huntress.

In savannah, open plain.

Wild animals roam, tropical sun bears down.

Searching for food, ongoing chore.

These jagged edges and blank pages are tearing at my core.

A wicker casket a picnic basket the Banshee’s at the door.

In whispering waves the sweet Song of the Sea carries your wisdom to me:

A parting glass a funeral mass we’ll shoot that breeze no more.

“Get up off your knees, go shoot that breeze.

Raise a glass of prosecco, to me.

The nearness of you seems farther than ever since now we traverse different plains.

Though the light it grows dim and your voice is a whisper I know that your love remains.

Remember me well, through the sag and the swell in the dancing of Autumn Leaves.

It won’t do to dwell on a tree that’s been felled, but know, everyone must grieve.”

Antelope stay close together, watching their own Constant battle for survival, both night and day.

Huge vultures soar high overhead.

Startled meerkat calls alert across peaceful scene.

Apex predator, lurks in high tree top, ruthless and strong.

Fading light turns to dusk.

Operating in the shadows, no sound, still of night.

A deadly vision in yellow and black coat.

Keen eyes fix over the savannah, young deer strays alone, no threat around.

Solitary figure creeps close in measured step.

Twelve feet and closing ready to pounce.

A flurry of limbs, dust fills the air.

Frantic pace, zig zag in full flight, wounded, into the distance.

The Leopard looks on.

Louis Mc Enhill.

Annie Ward McLaughlin 70

71

I’ve been working with some poets

ALL QUIET We pack nerve–endings into the cracked casings of biro pens throw windows open as wide as they’ll go preheat to 375.

Hot air roils and rises corkscrews through years of tempering. Colour spits back at blank cursors blink blink clouds gather on the ceiling.

The storm names itself.

We are its interpreters: lost selves found down garden paths, at half–open yellow doors sequined leopards swirling on stone – cold coffee skin whirlpools of fat words flooding the canvas of a life downdrafts conducted from mind to body to being. Our will is our wand.

And when they stick their heads in to ask how we spend our days we say all quiet.

Their words are mighty fine.

They’ve been trying to ‘get one’ out of me But all I do is rhyme.

I’ve been to Derry, Hollywood, Armagh and To the Dee, I’ve put their words in images, Expression’s what I see.

The groups are great, the craic’s been fab, They even coloured spoons!

And Seonaid brought her Saxophone to Play some background tunes.

We have almost hit the dozen, with only Two to go; An exhibition is in the plan with a book of Poems to show.

Amy, Judith, Abby and Colin led the way, And Seonaid organised it all, so all could Have their say.

Everyone has talent, they just have to find Their place, A Creative Life’s for everyone, a safe and Wordy space.

So thank you all participants, the journey Has been fun.

Poetry takes many forms, so let your Pencils RUN! THE END

Abby Oliveira

Bernie McAllister 72

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Creative Lives Charity Limited is registered in Scotland as Company No. 139147 and Charity No. SC 020345. Registered office: The Melting Pot, 15 Calton Road, Edinburgh EH8 8DL. Creative Lives acknowledges funding from Arts Council England, the Arts Council of Ireland, Creative Scotland and the Arts Council of Wales.

Thank You!