My Time - Poems inspired by creativity

My Time Poems inspired by creativity

What does ‘my time’ mean to you?

That’s what we asked the public in spring 2017, encouraging them to use poetic verse to share their thoughts on being creative. We received a large number of wonderful submissions – many of which you can read here.

Meanwhile, we paired ten poets from St Mungo’s Mirrorball in Glasgow with ten voluntary arts groups across Scotland. Each poet visited their group, immersed themselves in what they do – then went back home and wrote a poem inspired by their experience. Their work is sprinkled throughout this book.

Finally, we recruited Samuel Tongue to run a poetry workshop at Paisley Arts Centre during the Scottish Mental Health Arts Festival.

The words and phrases ‘donated’ by participants have been shaped

by Samuel into a poem, included here.

We are indebted to all the groups who hosted the St Mungo poets, to the participants in Paisley, and to all the poets who contributed their words to our open call. We loved hearing about how you spend your time.

We would like to thank the Scottish Poetry Library, with whom we worked in partnership on this project, for their invaluable help and expertise. Thank you also, to Jim Carruth at St Mungo’s Mirrorball for his astute guidance. And a huge thank you to Creative Scotland for funding this wonderful project.

We hope it inspires you to spend your time creatively.

Kelly Donaldson My Time Coordinator Voluntary Arts Scotland

The Doctor prescribed Hula Hooping by Lynn Valentine

Inspired by: Hula Hooping I am a one-woman Corryvreckan three thousand turns until I break.

Bruises rise with each rotation, sweat surges like a tide in flood.

This circle suits me like a lover’s touch, a wedding ring.

Each swing a hammer down on sadness, each loop a lengthening of the light.

Lynn Valentine’s The Doctor prescribed Hula Hooping was chosen by Scotland’s Makar, Jackie Kay from a shortlist of ten poems submitted to the My Time open call. Jackie described it as “a beauty” and said it “offered hope.”

Photo credit: Mary McCartney

swing and blues by Polly Atkin

Inspired by Aberdeen University Swing Dance Society 5 6 7 8 the wall is a mirror giving you back you do not want to see yourself stepping forward as if becoming the other self you’ve known was waiting

5 6 begin at the back of the room because you do not want to be seen like this jellyfish netted in an awkward skin a different creature entirely, moving

learning to lead, learning to hold your body as an equal partner, a good

is it you at all, now that you’re shadowing a shared pattern, foot by foot be the leader, or be the follower you choose rock step

rock step

- ple

- ple

rock step

rock step

- ple

- ple

rock step

rock step

- ple

- ple

tri step tri step tri step (follower in front)

step

whichever, be the follower, or be the leader

tri step tri step tri step (leader in front)

step

step step a peal of bells chiming like a call for wedding through the whole of the class out of beat out of time a digital ghost and now you duck-step tethered to each other

bells are ringing like a festival day through the whole of the dance a new harmony line and it’s only a mobile but now you are pecking guiding each other step step this is why you come to connect, to gather to dare fun failure to not be afraid to step on some toes let your arms droop dance will release us keep your knees loose for the end of the night

step step this is why you swing to connect to your body confident in motion dancing is terrifying even if you don’t trust your body dance will fix us keep your pulse keep your pulse when it’s all you can do

Photo credit: Adam MacMaster

Whittle by David Linklater

Inspired by: Ceramics Edges of teapots and fruit dishes made presentable.

I mothered bluebirds from lifeless liquid.

From cast moulds cream necks stemmed, a wing, two eyes, clay skeletons firing in the kiln.

Many would fold, cleft beaks, bubbles in the spine, children I buried with the wastage.

Some lived to be glazed in a frost-blue coat.

I fettle, work words.

Shaving, replacing, whittling away at the bone, back-bent. I peel the bark of tree stumps, thread smoke through the needle eye.

Picking wild oats with dirt tracks on my palms I weed the changes in me, out.

The moth floating dead in the glass like a star, a golden cross when the sun comes.

Some lines leap, some die, lungs full of ink.

But here I place the bluebird, a solitary tack on a cork board, and its wings flutter a little between blinks.

It whispers will you remember me tomorrow?

I ask the same of my flock of broken loves, blueprints stained with coffee and dust.

These are the measurements, incisions.

These are beginnings and ends, stacked lines, trimmings of trying.

THUNDERmann by Patricia Caird

Inspired by: Singing in a choir Mann sings in his house Thunderclap growls in the sky Harmony complete.

Pottering by Max Scratchmann

Inspired by: Philately They called it pottering, Or sometimes His hobby.

Or sometimes just plain Dabbling.

Something that whiled away his lonely hours, You know, Now that the wife had passed on.

That’s what they said.

Though no-one, NO-ONE, Could begin to understand his passion or his pain, As he sat with album and tweezers And the stories of a thousand lives Spread out before him In inch by inch rectangles of perforated paper, Legends engraved in cancellation ink, The living DNA of lives gone by preserved Like flies in cloudy-clear amber On yellowed gummed-backed strips, Albums caressed by the hands of the long dead, Their copperplate script an elegy To lost loves and broken hearts, Tiny haikus of love, Shards of pink envelopes marking the passing of years, Philatelist arias more poignant than any Puccini score And twice as heartbreaking, All archived in the dusty albums Lovingly stored in the all-embracing library of his shed Where you can always find him Pottering.

Photo credit: Anssi Tiusanen

Poaceae1 & Chameleon2 by Larry Butler

Inspired by Ricefield Arts and Cultural Centre, Glasgow

The rice is cut and clouds glisten in the fields….

A wanderer, I place my trust in the world….

After solstice, sunlight slowly lengthens…. Tu Fu

po ac ea ee po ac ea eye po ac ea ee eye o cham e le on chrys an the mum cham e le on chrys an the mum cham e le on on o o o o o o we grow everywhere go anywhere do everything high-fiving to everyone along the way ding-donging sashaying sometimes slow then fast slow again we change all change blending & sending messages from Hunan to Glasgow to Perth inside & outside from Aberdeen to Edinburgh paddling the Forth & Clyde Canal

how beautiful and fresh the grass returns! when golden days decline, the meadow burns; (Po Chü-i) po ac ea ee po ac ea eye po ac ea ee eye o cham e le on chrys an the mum cham e le on chrys an the mum cha am e le on on o o o o o o wherever we go we make rainbows we belong sing-a-long with a congress of creatures bouncing & dancing thru bamboo barking – roaring – crowing – bleating – neighing – muttering – squeaking – chuffing – hissing – grunting – bellowing – laughing from Hillhead to Kinnning Park Maryhill Govan Kelvingrove Garnethill George Square Forth & Clyde Canal what a hullabaloo folding & unfolding we fold again and again that longing for freedom come all ye come all ye come loud come strong forever changing our begging bowls held high tofu – proud this being that becomes a song a kite a dragon all colours shapes & sizes grass sprouting between our toes welcome all with noses to terra cotta cups we taste the Wu Tan mountains

anything can happen anything is possible with Ricefield Arts 1 Po-ay-see-eye or Po-ay-sea-ee reputed to be the most difficult word to pronounce in the English language. It means grasses including rice, wheat, millet, bamboo and more….What kind of plant is Ricefield Arts – answer : grass 2 When I asked a volunteer: if Ricefield Arts were an animal, what animal would it be: answer Chameleon

Stitch in Time by Maxine Rose Munro

Inspired by: Sewing I slip between the tick and tock.

With needle stab and drag of thread I build silent silken cocoon. Artful sleight of hand and, stitch on stitch, my fingers birth newness, joining where before was Not. In the gaps of in-breath and out I move with no thought, empty of all but the now.

And when the time comes and my thread must be cut, I do so quick, sharp, strong. Deft, natural in this place like no other I move freed from gravity’s depressions, I fly for a time. And that is enough.

Give me your Hand by Stephanie Green

Inspired by: Dance Touch finger tip to finger tip thumbs, index to index, tall man to tall man ring to ring, pinkie to pinkie.

Take this invisible gift in the cradle of your hands shield it, as it flickers in the draft of all our cold, dreich days.

Here is a word without vowel or consonant.

It is a language you have never heard before but understand immediately.

We will never be the same again.

Line Dancing with Dolly Parton by Andrew Keay

Inspired by: Dancing What a way to make a living for the swap from synthetics to denim beaten soft with country music squashed into a dance line. Overtly patterned shirts weave with nostalgic undertones as we sway, stamp, grapevine through our hour, allowing it to drive us crazy if we let it.

All taking precious post-pay-packet moments, no, casting a lifeline from labour, crediting ourselves with that rare, precious honour: joy. Respiring deeply, perspiring neatly. Step two three four shuffling majestically heeled cowboy boots across a glossy varnished town hall floor.

Now on borrowed time, our finite helium souls inflated once more, we resume our verse, stumble to the kitchen, reminding ourselves of our allocated fun. Lives topped up to their measured limit, we wish, for nothing more than that one hour per week.

Haiku by Gillian Dawson

Inspired by: Watercolour painting watercolours rain bleeds the sky into Loch Ewe

At Braemar Creative Arts Festival 2017 by Chik J Duncan

Inspired by Braemar Creative Arts Festival There was quiz night at the nineteenth hole where we had to get creative With our craftihands for answers, and our acting skills as well.

Three Special Ks invited this latecomer to go native So I made up their fool complement. Their Q.I. average fell.

There were scrambled eggs and porridge and good company to feed the day From Dalmore House to Village Hall and all stops in between.

There was dinner at The Braemar Lodge: some tapas, pints, a play As Henry tried to justify having more than one just queen.

There were kids landscaping gardens for the trolls and for the fairies While some trolls (whose mammies knitted them) were playing hide-and-keek.

One mammy made the solar system, hung it in St. Margaret’s, To Gustav Holst’s accompaniment. It was pure dead magnifique.

There was nattering about knitting and about the planets forming.

A great niece of John Von Lamont told me tales of Braemar’s son.

Friday evening was the ceilidh, there was school on Friday morning Where I played the ukelele but the ukelele won.

There was word play layering meaning on monosyllabication While gazing out the window looking pensively reflective To the misty hills and atmospheric glens for inspiration.

At pastels class a knitting needle put things in perspective There were more than forty arts and crafts, too many to get round them all.

Still, Sunday brought the chance to savour one last grand event.

Braemarket took me back once more towards the village hall.

Saw a fellow writer in the Co. Said my farewells. And went.

Photo credit: Dale Johnson

At The Heart by Anna Dickie

Inspired by: Singing in a women’s a cappella choir It’s Tuesday morning and women’s voices, in three-part harmony, sing out Smokey Robinson, I don’t like you, but I love you – while outside in the yard toddlers send up an insistent decant scat. In the hall an amalgam of creamed butter, sugar and sifted flour wafts.

Upstairs needles pirouette, like dancers in Morag Alexander’s class, pulling silks through linen in back stitch, split stitch, stem stitch, French knots. On other days, at other hours, threads of French and German slip from practiced tongues, and lips are pursed and shaped to give a visual voice to those for whom the world has turned its volume down. It’s here we come when our lives suffer an infarction, an arrhythmia, a block.

It’s here we come to pick up the rhythms again, to pick out a beat on practice pad, to fall safely on a crash mat, to dance again, to reel. It’s here kinship finds support, it’s here that kindness and care are more than abstract, it’s here they are “doing words”. It’s here, in this centre, this Old Victorian school, with its boys doors & girls doors, that a community finds its heart.

Flight by Anni Lacey

Inspired by: Painting Grey wings lay on blue fluid sky brushes past them as painters mark time

My Time by Kirsten MacQuarrie

Inspired by: Drawing and writing My time is not my own, dandelions draw me on.

Floating petals breezing free, I am the guardian of the garden.

Wife and worker, daughter, carer, dog walker and dish washer MUM! I care for each one, cultivate.

Tend, grow you up give you sunshine.

But once a full moon comes this Break within the clouds.

A gap in tides my space in time.

The wave starts whispering cautious courage.

I clasp the pen and I begin.

Haiku by Juliet Wilson

Inspired by: Jewellery making making jewellery counting a syllable for every bead I thread

Words for a new song with choruses by Catherine Eunson

Inspired by music group E Karika Djal (Romani for ‘Moving Wheel’), Glasgow Come all you folk from round about, come all ye strangers too, Come public transport passengers and car drivers who Can find a place to park the old, we’re singing to the new.

Come mothers, fathers, popcorn guzzlers, Uncles, aunties, jigsaw puzzlers, Traditional dancers, false teeth losers, Cooks and shop keepers, wedding dress choosers, People at the doctor’s waiting for a test, Night shift workers hungry for a rest, Come all you musicians, and listeners too, Our greeting’s in the music, the songs are for you!

Here come the melodies with wide open arms Whistled down city streets, or picked on farms.

They mix sad stories of broken romance With reels, Maori chanting and the Hot Club of France; The story of the weeping girl, tearing up her letter, Will the pain in her heart never get better?

Or the lonesome river boy who asks his mother For water for his journey to search for another.

Many old tragedies seek healing in our songs, Will you come to our ceilidh, can you sing along?

The Roma flag is blue and green, the centre is a wheel, That’s E Karika Djal; and you could say that the deal Is sky above us, earth below, and the turning of the wheel.

Chorus Sme na ceste, minulosť prešla jeden, dva, tri, štyri slnko vychádza, aj zachádza koleso sa točí naďalej.

Tha an t-àm a bh’ ann seachad, bidh sinn a’ siubhal a h-aon, a dhà, a trì, a ceithir thig a’ ghrian suas, thèid a’ ghrian sìos tha a’ chuibhle fhathast a’ tionndadh.

Ruszamy w drogę co było - minęło Raz - dwa - trzy - cztery Słońca wschody i zachody A koło kręci się dalej.

The past is gonew, we travel on One, two, three, four The sun comes up, the sun goes down The wheel keeps turning round.

Tradas dromeha saworo ima pregela jek - duj - tryn - star o khamoro wdzial i zadzial a kereka furt dzial.

Photo credit: Reiff Gaskell

Words are my Garden by Rona Fitzgerald

Inspired by: Gardening Every day, I dig for verse blooms shapes, foundations, solid oak, bamboo trellis lazy beds In spring my lines were fresh true, ice breaking snow drops, yellow and purple crocus

push up.

Summer heat kindled my garden aching red, fuchsia fierce, crusading for change. Tumbling in undergrowth fallow fields.

Infertile, I sought renewal words that dazzled, productive papers, sentences, seeds arid days.

Then autumn’s bounty my time ripeness rain-fresh days pruning seasons turn.

I’m contemplating my Jisei.

Mountain ash in arctic tundra

ciunas

solas

winter ready.

First published in The Passage Between, Issue I, Spring 2018

Nightfall by Kirsty Niven

Inspired by: Writing When night floats down upon this town and tickles the roofs and steeples, my hand begins to itch and twitch.

It sees things in the dark that eyes cannot, images that call to only it.

A twinkling star can become a character, a sienna streetlight a love poem, the faint thrum of a heartbeat, the metre.

My fingers dance across the page, leaving inky footprints trailing after.

When the lights go out and everyone sleeps, my pen awakens.

My Time by Antonia Seaward

Inspired by: Writing poetry The my time.

The me time.

To be me time.

My free time.

Some in between times.

The spaces between the different types of me times.

Where can I just be me, time?

Is it the alone time?

Loved and contented to be me time?

When I’m truly free and all the different types of me joint together so I can be.

These words, they are my time.

17 Syllable Check Up by Dave Bennett

Inspired by: Writing haikus on Twitter A home for my thoughts Cathartic self improvement Words are what I need.

A Greek Fragmentary by Trisha Heaney

Inspired by Edinburgh Headway Group’s creative writing class for people with acquired brain injuries (A.B.I) Chorus:

Alex:

We waved ourselves goodbye the stories we’d been crafting gone. Torn by A.B.I. New plans required. Redrafting.

Such hard work, such effort can’t be done without support hence acknowledgements embrace each book.

Thanks to you, the volunteers, our focus passes pain. Look: creative practice changes everything we’re making headway.

yes I come for physiotherapy but it’s the poetry class that draws me

David:

It’s the L.P. monologues with Neil again.

I tell him I’m far too young.

The trick’s to keep it light, make them laugh the world outside is hard enough. I throw in jokes of sex n drugs n rock n roll wanting them to be the life n soul of what goes on to leave the pain outside, come in to warmth.

Rick: She calls herself Alexa this iPad non-existent figure who is the teeth and tongue I lost so soon.

The poem we read today is Towards The Stars Lost in space I compliment the pearls floating from the ears of today’s new volunteer.

She is charmed it seems, lets her smile beam back a ray of pleasure. I don’t know if she’s heard that I used to shoot folk for a living.

I like to talk about my interests, what I enjoy doing, zooming into conversations focussing on giving.

all on the same level gathered round a table no formal rules we taste each others’ accents Gloucester Paisley patterns poems are…I think… mercurial…

Nikki: Three months I’ve been his carer.

Three months we’ve been together and we ken each other well, eh no?

Would you hold this for him please?

I need to phone about my wages.

Just check the straw won’t fall, eh no?

At first I found it hard to tell some things he said. My ma says it’s cos I’m young and speak too fast.

My ma says I’ve got some nerve I thought he deserved to know it’s what I’d expect likesay, mutual respect.

Mary: Loosely packed

I’m first out and fast

slicing through memory

in woollen jacket

jogging on imagery:

skating on glass scarlet ribbons

carving a swathe not

jerking

knotted

knitted jumper mmmmuffled scarf-tangled gloves inside the sleeves

Fair Isle

when I swear

Shetland shawl

unrav

now

?

where

raglan

they don’t mind

Chorus: Creative practice changes paradigms we’ve cast off on our journey our own odyssey braving seas and time.

Our tale too requires help our tale too is making headway.

Photo credit: Derek Anderson

Church Choir by Tiggy Laldy

Inspired by: Choral singing At choir practice A long lineage stretches behind us: I envisage our predecessors Gravitating here every week From all directions, Through all weathers.

One liturgical season gives way to the next, One year turns into another Until we’re here, tonight.

Our choir master takes a good rehearsal: Smiley, never snidey, Setting the standard with his accompaniments Flowing flawlessly from his fingers.

His love of music is infectious, And he enjoys teaching us the right notes and rhythms, Always working with us, always positive.

I like the other choir members - We share laughs together, Support and encourage each other And so hearing their voices around me Is balm to my soul.

As the night draws in around us I lose myself in the music, Giving it everything I have, My spirit soaring with the soprano line.

On Sunday mornings We’re up in the organ gallery.

Angels watch over us Cherubs cheer us.

Through the clear windows, Shadowy boughs wave.

It’s wonderful to be up so high, To be looking down on the whole church.

The organ hisses, clunks, clicks, Like a wheezing giant Playing bowls and tapping his fingernails.

When we sing in the hushed church, I feel together with the others, Even though we’re all so different - I think that’s what I like most About being in the choir.

A - a-a a - me - n, A - a - a - me - - nnn.

Story Space by Kathleen Mansfield

Inspired by: Writing I thought my children would make me whole, give me a purpose and longevity.

I love them, but they do not make me whole.

I thought fitness itself would make me whole: fill me with air and lightness and vitality for life.

I love to use my body but it doesn’t make me whole.

I took some time to find my groove.

No knowing that, for me, creative thinking banishes maladies, eliminates loneliness.

I didn’t know companionship until I gave writing stories some space in my busy mind.

We Love Fat Nose by Mark Russell

Inspired by Performance Collective: Stranraer You ask us about our town we’re deep-watered, perched on an inch of dirt that parts the Rhins from the rest of Scotland we lie in the basin of Loch Ryan right there at the bottom, like dregs in beer for a hundred and fifty years we watched the ferries dock, the ferries sail, the ferries connect us to part of something more than a few cows, cliffs, and razorbills You ask us to tell you what happened to the town it became cold and quiet it was sick and almost died Go on, ask us how a town almost dies

if we could tell people how we feel about our town if we could show them how we love our town And now you know why we do this because if we don’t nobody else will We know you’re dying to ask it means ‘Stranraer’, of course (at least, in one of the tales) we have so many stories of Fat Nose and we’ve made them just for you

people go away and they don’t come back

to remind you we’re still here so take a seat, enjoy the show

we never moved from this spot but we became exiles

we hope you love it like we do

You ask us why we do this because when the town almost died its story began to gather full stops a story is like breath full stops are its death

Ask us how the sentence grew

if the buses ran on time if the people returned

so we began to build a sentence to keep us alive you see, like gods, stories need never die

Ask us what the sentence was it would be better round here if

Photo credit: Pete Robinson

The Artist by Susan Pearson

Inspired by: Painting The Beginning The empty, seized by inspiration In my gut, the motivation Quick! Work! Before it’s gone While you feel it, get it done Emptiness is what I dread So while ideas rush from my head Nothing else holds my attention No touch, no sound, just sensation Work with quiet desperation Freedom, no need for validation Each stroke, release of true emotion Each stroke, a part of my creation It is done.

The End It is done Stand back, swagger, self-assured Lean in close, senses lured To a point, a colour or space A flaw. Erase.

Why waste time?

It was completed, one stroke more, feel defeated Cannot stop now or slow down or leave it Until it is right, work through the night Drowsy and drained, piece stained, like lust But I must trust the painting Try to be contented Demented Is it done?

Monday night choir by Shelly Jeffcott

Inspired by: Singing Feverish and fun Song uplifts and unites us Best part of my week Lifeline by Sofia Amina

Inspired by: Cross stitch A neighbour teaching a daughter The daughter teaching her son The son teaching his granddaughter The granddaughter teaching her village... ...the same needle and thread: Needle to needle invisible blood one step beyond its eye staining the skin coloured cotton thread following the instructions laid out before it: In through hole number 1 out through hole number 2 in 5 out 9 weaving in, out of time, the numbers on the face of a clock in 4 out 3 The countdown begins the hands of the clock rushing to help the weave moving with the countdown untangling, being made new again The neighbour said to the granddaughter Needle to thread ashes to ashes dust to dust

Terrible by Stewart Sanderson

Inspired by the Truly Terrible Orchestra, Inverness A cold evening in Inverness: The cars pull up outside the hall And into it the players press Prepared for something terrible.

Inside, their instruments emerge – French horns and trumpets, violins.

As people tune the soundwaves surge And this week’s practising begins.

Not every phrase is played in time; Not every note hits perfect pitch – Still, this rough music fills the room And its total effect is rich.

So soon it will be time to slip Away into the freezing night With sore fingers and throbbing lips And eyes inexplicably bright.

It isn’t virtuosity Which makes the music you play great But that you play it anyway When it’s cold out, and getting late.

Though elsewhere inboxes are full To bursting and accounts undone For now you play: a beautiful Cacophony, whose clarion Keeps back the mob of obligations Waiting just outside the room – Defies the hundreds of distractions Lurking in the wintry gloom.

So much of art is falling short And as I listened to you I Was struck by a familiar thought: How terrible it would be not to try.

Photo credit: Ewen Weatherspoon

The Concert by Sharon Black

Inspired by: Singing in my local choir We climb the steps, choral scores under our arms, shrug off our sweaters in the nursing home’s heat.

A vase of artificial flowers waits at the dining hall’s entrance.

The concert starts. May frowns and rocks and half-way through yells Fucking nothing! a look of confusion for an instant opening up her face. Brenda squints with her one good eye, smiles slack-mouthed, sobs loudly at the choruses and crescendos.

Pete rasps the beat through his gums while Marge tuts quietly in the front row pulling at her fingers on her lap. The striplight by the coffee machine is failing – it flickers, buzzing softly, until a girl in a pale yellow uniform gets up and turns it off. Jean’s hunched over her knees, so low she seems asleep, might tip from her chair – until at the final chord she bobs up pink-faced and clapping like a child.

First published in The Emma Press Anthology of Age Agnes by Rose Stuart-Smith

Inspired by: Painting Agnes touched my feet and saw a rebirth.

There were 12 snowdrops in my room.

Every morning was a frosty morning.

Every new face is an old face and every pair of eyes a pool to fall into.

Time Out of Time by Paul Foy

Inspired by: Writing This is not an hour.

That polite period at day’s end Remarking on The cyclical and obvious.

This is time pressed out of time Peek-a-booing through the sheen of endless Checkerboard nights, Mischievously playing Hide and seek, and catch me if you can.

This is the dream of dark matter That has no days, no nights, No solstice interstices, just Everything we search for in The undetected realms we sense are there.

This is time pressed out of time, The carrying of all lives within us, Released into frames that cannot hold them Until we break and settle down Under a nightlight, Russian Caravan Warming our hands, or peaty malts Singeing our bellies, searing thoughts Punctuating to puncture the Tap tap tapping, Tap tap tapping out pinpoints of light and dark; It matters not a jot Because they know what they are not: Mere markings on a page.

The Creative Cycle by Rebecca Johnstone

Inspired by: Drawing and painting motifs to use when designing patterns Patterns mark my time a kaleidoscope retreat sketch, paint, stitch: repeat

My Stash by Rachel Tennant

Inspired by The Thistle Quilters, Edinburgh In the community of quilting the conversation can last forever.

The common thread, that holds pieces together, from micro to macro, individual, shared and worldwide,

Quilted three-layered landscapes are thrown over jelly roll hills their fat quarters neatly incised by vivid valleys of appliqué woodlands.

is a palpable passion for pattern, a craving for colour and the feel of fabric.

Their kaleidoscope combinations induce addictive, hallucinogenic rainbows

Patchwork patterns piece a snail trail of geometry, a storm at sea slashes crewel cliffs across a fusible web of broderie water.

that make eyes dance with the thrill of a sale stall.

An adrenalin rush turns a walking foot into a free motion, long armed, uncontrolled dash to increase the stash.

Arts and crafts shadow stitch stylised natural forms, beauty and pleasure of a true lovers knot, free motion loops of sunbursts, warmth from the dawning of a new day.

From these greedy gem hoards cottons, silks, velours are deconstructed, then reconstructed to emerge as newly cut, faceted treasures.

Through the weft and weave of world politics contentment is complete, each quilt crafted with care for another.

Comfort in companionship, comfort in creating comfort.

Photo credit: Derek Anderson

World Music by Tom Malone

Inspired by: Every Monday, in the Scottish Dance Teachers Alliance studios in Glasgow, Autumn River Tai Chi uses the upper studio and Voicebeat World Music Community Choir rehearses in the lower Above the tai chi players move slowly

harmonies. to the melo – dies

and Below Inner peace.

Outside,

a passerby, scurrying Stops

to listen.

Sculpture by Joy Parker

Inspired by: Sculpting Something about some thing the thing the not thing the action on the thing the thinginess of the thing the thing about sculpture is IT - the thing it things you you thing it and the thinginess comes out.

Creativity by Jenni Mack

Inspired by: Creative writing Life is like a box of chocolates Boxed, labelled, stripped down to ingredients lists.

Flavours separated by shaped holes specific for each one.

Creativity is about turning that box upside down.

Shaking it, letting the flavours mix.

Ripping off the label and taking a chance to discover a flavour you’d never believe you could love.

Sample and explore what life has to offer – and share it with others.

Eat the green triangles no one wants and love the fact that you gave consideration without conforming to the elusive strawberry cream.

Enjoy them slowly and in the peace and quiet, taking the time to mull over the different tastes and textures and smells.

Creativity is thinking ‘outside the box’ and realising life is so much sweeter when you savour it.

Etre et Avoir by Avril McLean

Inspired by: Combining 5Rhythms dance with writing, painting and making My time to talk to just be Nothing given Nothing taken away Scorched plains Fertile desert Sleight movement Risen anew Process of attrition Complete for now Worked through come round again

Singing Into Being by Mary Thomson

Inspired by Local Vocals dementia-friendly choir, Helensburgh Ancient gods sang the world into being There is always a before and after Before speech there was signing and singing Music speaks of living and laughter There is always a before and after A choir makes friends and singers of strangers Music speaks of living and laughter Even the silent vibrate to quavers A choir makes friends and singers of strangers Singing together makes the timid strong Even the silent vibrate to quavers The goddess of Memory gave man Song Singing together makes the timid strong A chorus weaves sound into harmony The goddess of Memory gave man Song When speaking is hard singing is easy A chorus weaves sound into harmony Soft, loud, high, low, generously merge When speaking is hard singing is easy Each voice a bird of a different plumage Soft, loud, high, low, generously merge Before speech there was signing and singing Each voice a bird of a different plumage Ancient gods sang the world into being

Photo credit: Alison Gildea

A Creative Week in Braemar by Marilyn Baker

Inspired by: Braemar Creative Arts Festival Whistles, fiddles, bodhrans, pipes, if it’s Monday night, it must be trad When it comes to playing reels and jigs, we’re really not too bad After months and months of practice, we’re now the ‘local band’ And when the tourist season hits, the Blaeberries are in demand.

On Tuesdays, Deeside Knitwits meet to knit and natter And all our woolly creatures are the subjects of the chatter Will it be squirrels or woodland birds, mermaids, fish or frogs?

Or fairies, trolls and pixies or even cats and dogs!

Now Wednesday’s Castleton Dancers night, when we hope for sets of eight We circle, wheel, do rights and lefts, the exercise is great We listen to the music, point our toes and count the beat We bow and smile and weave about, and go home with happy feet.

When Thursday comes it’s time to act, ‘cause it’s am-dram night you know We read the scripts, choose the parts and practise for the show It could be comedy sketches, or maybe serious plays It could be a whodunit, let’s see what the director says.

And Friday night’s a smashing time for us ukulele guys Fourteen meet in the local pub and make a lovely noise Songs of old, songs of now, everybody sings And taps their feet and claps their hands while G7 strum the strings.

If it’s Saturday it’s drumming time, the newest group in town The rhythms - we’re still learning - all make a pleasant sound We’ve surdos, snares, and tambourims, the instruments of Samba Check us out on Facebook, our name is . . . Marramba!

Come Sunday night, it’s time for Wheesht, Braemar’s community choir, Both men and women, young and old, sing to their hearts’ desire We learn new songs and harmonies, and we really have a ball And we do an annual concert in the Braemar Village Hall.

The younger members of Braemar are also in the zone And thanks to them the village now has a pipe band of its own All teenage lads, their pipes do skirl as they blow and squeeze And the Highland dancing lassies leap and burl in time with ease.

If you ever come to Braemar, to visit or to stay There’s always stuff going on, to pass the time away But if none of the above is a thing you like to do We’ve got rivers, hills and castles, and such a lovely view.

Walking, skiing, bowling, golf, cycling with a friend Hunting, fishing, snooker, darts, the choices never end So come and visit anyway, we’re a really friendly crowd Such creative positivity makes everybody proud.

My Time by John FR Munro

Inspired by: Gorbals Writing Group My sands of time are swiftly pouring I can’t waste what’s left by being boring Worked all my life and paid my share I need to be selfish, to write and to share To scribble and doodle to dream and to muse I now need to express my creative views Write sonnets, poems, jokes, a story or two If your time was fading, what would you do?

Chronicle your past, jot down what you’ve said Write final love letters, before you are dead Recall the embraces and wee smiling faces Journeys to work and trips to exotic places Recall your bittersweet childhood Filled with love, but no food Conjure stories for wee ones, so close to your heart Of pirates and princesses and baddies who fart Record laughter and love, all the moments of pleasure Comedy characters, super heroes and some hidden treasure So, with some vigour, that’s what I must do Before all of my sand - sadly - makes its way through.

How not to be scunnered by Samuel Tongue Time to explore…to think…to be uninhibited, careless and free.

Creativity is to do exactly what is not required of me.

Rip off the label and take a chance with poems that are happy, verses that dance in a different universe, above and around us like Martians doing the Can-Can. I’m wondering: Do they think we are the lesser beings?

I want to be remembered for living, ornamental but not ornament. I want to be conscious (not self-conscious) of worlds of mystery, a sense of another story to life, not biting us on the ass, but deep in feeling and a forgotten pleasure; scribbling alone but in it together.

This poem was created by Samuel using words and phrases ‘donated’ by participants at a poetry workshop, run by Voluntary Arts Scotland at Paisley Arts Centre during the Scottish Mental Health Arts Festival.

Photo Credit: Adlai Faigen

Places Please by Jasmine Lindemann

Inspired by: Stage management in the theatre I feel so at home Making lists and dreams come true Listen, laugh, smile I am so alive The stakes can be so high I am the most me 20 minute call I can do it all Opera to comedy You just don’t see me Logic in a storm Solved it creatively I will find a way 10 minute call I want you to shine I’ll help you be your best It takes a village I have the answers To all your fears and woes I have faith in you 5 minute call I know all your lines And the blocking from Act 2 It’s all in my head The curtain goes up Live or die, the show goes on But I pull the strings Places Please

Living Dunes of Newburgh by Jim McWhirter

Inspired by: Wildlife photography the dunes seem alive they change shape and drift gulls float overhead on the wind seals fill the estuary with bobbing heads been this way since the eocene with our care it will go on sandmartins nest in fragile dunes they flit in and out burrowing getting ready for next generation terns hover searching for a meal then suddenly into a dive coming up with a beak full of silver on the horizon the sky and sea seem to merge as one beautiful rays of sunlight cut through the clouds to kiss the shimmering water and then after sundown the moon and carpet of stars sparkle on dark estuary water but night will conclude and blue sea and sky will return

Drawn Out by Gareth Coles

Inspired by: Drawing Long drawn moments of focused attention, Time stretches on and on; But when you look up with a wild surmise You can’t quite believe where it’s gone.

A handful of reworked smudges and marks, Nudging themselves into place.

The perennial struggle with paper and graphite, Then back in the pencil case.

Until next time.

Mainsails doon, masts asunder by Christie Williamson

Inspired by Shetland Mandolin Band Dey kent l’inconnu de Limoise owerweel i da Dale o Waas but here in big Islesburgh dey wir nae pipes ta skirl. Hallelujah!

Fae aa aerts dey cam ta plick an pluck dir fower dooble stringed roond bellied, slender necked bundles o musical joy.

Tuned laek a fiddle sans da owertones o tortured cat at sent me howlin fur da hills dey super-trouped aa da wye fae Greenland mirriment tae douse Venetian harmonies turned mi camino oscuro tae sole nostro.

Wha widna play dis haund until dir fingirs bled?

Birl da bus tae whitivvir mead du fancies – wave da wand at canna help but faa anunder da spell o da Shetland Mandolin Band.

Photo credit: Dave Donaldson

The Sound of Voicebeat in 5 Verses by Bridie O’Dowd

Inspired by: Singing in a world music song group ARRIVAL The clatter of chairs and the babble of voices, Builds in crescendo as people appear.

Laughter erupts and the air is enlivened, Forecasting an evening of music and cheer.

WARM UP Ascending scales of resonant voices, Settling into a rhythmical swing.

Gathering tones into concordant fusion, Merging and blending, preparing to sing.

REHEARSAL Georgian, Croatian, Shapenote and Swedish, Namibian with clicks and some Shetland with drone.

We honour the music of many a country, The language, the melody, the tune and the tone.

TEA BREAK The audible sounds of appreciation, Acknowledge the treats people lovingly bake.

A call and response song re-gathers the group up.

As we wash up the cups and the crumbs of the cake.

CLEAR UP The singing of ‘Burnside’ with vigour and volume, Fills the room as we pack up and depart.

Gathers momentum in harmony and friendship, As we head for the pub with joy in our heart.

Hope by Jock Stein

Inspired by: Gardening Eight years ago I popped a seed into a pot; that foxglove tree is now three times the height of me, and every year I yearn to see it flower before I pop my clogs.

Peeper by Caroline List

Inspired by: Writing poetry My dear inspiring moment still so tiny and so free of plot of verse of explanation in a minute when everything seems possible between your blind wriggling away from me and your first blink back in your nest my palm your claws around my thumb your milkband of my words my visions behind my own sealed eyelids I can see all you might become once we reach climbing age a roan a red spot a pilgrim in an abstract painting a black fox a prophet with the shiniest fur your fingers stories stretching lengthening filling my world our world and reaching far ahead in time

Poem for Poems by E.C.J. Dewhurst

Inspired by: Writing poetry Inbetween here and the edge There is a thin place And to write is to hover here One foot steady One foot in limbo Heart raised heavenward Head in the abyss With words that meander between meaning And nonsense And time half precious Half wasted.

My Time by Cassandra Barron

Inspired by: Creativity in all its many forms Time to knit Time to sing Time to make music Time to act, to photograph, to dance, to stitch, paint, write and record Time to create Time to S L O W D O W N Time to breathe Time to connect Time to reflect Time to grow Time to relax and re-energise Time to watch and learn Time to practise and persevere Time to invent and experiment Time to laugh Time to play Time to develop your passion Time to share it Time to help others and to help yourself Time to inspire and be inspired Time to drink tea and put the world to rights Time to be part of a community Time to help create one Time to make a difference Time to be proud of what you’ve achieved Time to be.

The Mirrored Page by S Fox-May

Inspired by: Writing These are the words that fill the silence Bitten down, choked back Neglected To be myself I need these words Scrawled out, mulled over Here on the page is my blessed defiance

unconventional by Jodie Given

Inspired by: Free verse poetry Being Creative is my sedative, it sets me free, it allows me to fly, in these long summer nights I come alive, writing down my thoughts, these little poems are all I got, using emotions I couldn’t of fought, Am no John Cooper Clarke, but I write what’s in my heart, This is my very own personal form of art.

Creative Satisfaction by Arthur McLellan

Inspired by: Painting and writing Within us all there is ability To craft and create Our little minor achievements That feeling will elate The picture on the wall Sitting proudly in its frame Has even greater significance If it’s signed with your name The little poetic rhyme you wrote Your very own creation Giving creative satisfaction All from your imagination

Just for You by Carolyn Rankin

Inspired by: Choral singing The candle that burns in the church is for you The spark that is in my heart is for you The silver sheen of the loch is for you The deep green frond of the fir is for you The pale pink blush of the rose is for you The surging swell of the tide is for you The scent of the heather, the sweet of the clover The fading note of the choir is for you, is for you, is for you

My Time by Jacqueline Sorbie

Inspired by: Writing A world of creativity So different from my own Immersed in a world of imagination Delving into the unknown Escaping into a world of fantasy My writing allows me to become The author of my own destiny To possibly change the outcome Writing is my own sanctuary Retreating from the realities of time Worries melt away and vanish To become my own personal paradigm

This is CARP by Ciara MacLaverty

Inspired by: Writers block and the internet If, in frustration, you type, This is CARP! on the draft of an old poem you will have a new poem about Carps - only now, you must research Carp on Google.

Choose the species of fish over the verb of peevish complaint.

Find photos of fat, tattooed men in waders holding carp aloft in a swamp.

Click on this woman in a gold bikini covering her nipples with a fish the size of a dog crossed with a walrus.

Scroll through mud streams of silver carp, belly up, their tragic, gaping mouths saved only by the next picture of an American granny, so thrilled with the carp she’s cradling in her freckled arms, it could be her first child, just hours into this world.

Haiku on Reprieve by Giselle Mickel

Inspired by: Writing Bird pecks office glass.

Keyboard clatters in response a short escapade.

My Time by Hilary Jones

Inspired by: Writing and reading Finding my time...

Sublime, Quiet time, Reading, writing, relax time, Curl up in a chair with a cup of tea, No deadline, Just time, For a nap.

Make a bed out of pillows and blankets, Put a mattress on the floor, As a sweet summer breeze blows in a serenade, Through the open terrace door.

This is my time, To slow down, Awaken my soul to the present moment, Take in the surroundings in which I reside, This is but a moment in time, A moment which is mine.

Carried Away by Tony Crowther

Inspired by: Writing poetry Blazing golden eagle swoops from his eyrie piercing my grey world, soaring me to wild and colourful lands where beagles, badgers and toucans play footy, romance and dance Martians do the can-can, ladies tickle me I swashbuckle And captain the seven seas Getting carried away

Thank you to. . . .

The ten wonderful groups we visited: Aberdeen University Swing Dance Society Braemar Creative Arts Festival E Karika Djal, Glasgow Headway Creative Writing Group, Edinburgh Local Vocals, Helensburgh Ricefield Arts, Glasgow Performance Collective: Stranraer Shetland Mandolin Band Thistle Quilters, Edinburgh The Truly Terrible Orchestra, Inverness Our photographers: Derek Anderson Dave Donaldson Adlai Faigen Reiff Gaskell Alison Gildea Dale Johnson Adam MacMaster Pete Robinson Anssi Tiusanen Ewen Weatherspoon And to everyone who contributed their words to our open call for poems.

Voluntary Arts Scotland champions and supports creative activity in all its forms.

It offers a wide range of resources via its website and training, helps promote creative activity, and advocates on behalf of the voluntary arts sector.

Each year it runs the Epic Awards - which shine a spotlight on creative achievement - and is a lead partner in the Get Creative Festival, which encourages newcomers to discover the joy of taking part.

To find out more, visit www.vascotland.org.uk or contact info@vascotland.org.uk

The Scottish Poetry Library is a unique national resource and advocate for the art of poetry, and Scottish poetry in particular.

It is passionately committed to bringing the pleasures and benefits of poetry to as wide an audience as possible.

Physically and virtually, the Scottish Poetry Library’s doors are open.

To find out more, visit www.scottishpoetrylibrary.org.uk

My Time was coordinated by Voluntary Arts Scotland in partnership with the Scottish Poetry Library, funded by Creative Scotland.

Voluntary Arts Scotland is part of the Voluntary Arts Network (operating as Voluntary Arts), registered in Scotland as Company No. 139147 and Charity No. SC 020345. Voluntary Arts Scotland acknowledges funding from Creative Scotland.