Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

This poem is part of a task I did for creative writing class.  We had to take an existing poem and ‘recreate’ it, by thinking about the essence of the original but then making something new.  The original poem I chose is ‘Daisy’ by Alice Oswald, from her collection Weeds and Wild Flowers (2009): Daisy I’m chosen, picked, My dirty feet no longer Snugly in mud. Higher than ever, I feel the cold air Batter my lashes. You set me down on The palm of your hand, Warm as a nudging worm, And push your thumbnail in. Our limbs are looped. You lift us up to have a look. Now I hang in mid-air, held, To serve your summer With my eye shut tight. by Inez Cook

Danny said let’s go out tonight, but I didn’t want to.   My best dress was getting Shabby and the holes in the bottom Of my shoes would show when we jived Together. He pleaded and said are you still Sullking about your Mam’s butterfly brooch? Pride got the better of me.   I would never Let him know that I crossed the road on Lake Street now, so as not to see it in the Pawnbroker’s window. My hand shook when I handed it over To Mr Levenstein and he had to Uncurl my fingers one by one to Releash my grip.   His licked his lips and I wanted to be sick. Danny said it was just 'til he got Paid what he was owed and then I could get it back. Another week and the Landlord would throw us out, was that what I Wanted?   No, I said, but I vowed silently that I'd never let it go again. There's a little left over, Danny said, so Let's have a night of dancing and Forget our troubles, shall we?

There were a few raised eyebrows when we told people that our first trip abroad with our children was to be to Berlin.   We were to visit my cousin Lucy who lives in the city. It was to be an adventure, and we hoped William, (7), and Oliver, (5), would think so too.   Berlin seems to be a city struggling with its history; it is raw and present.   Along the street, running through the buses and cyclists and “Trabant Safaris”, is a line of cobbles –the route of the Berlin Wall. It runs like a scar through the centre of the city. The boys enjoy spotting the line as we follow our guidebook between the city’s landmarks. ‘Are we in the East, or the West, now?’ William asks.    It’s hard to tell, and I try to imagine the ugly concrete barrier towering above us.   Here and there are tall posts showing its height and thickness.   At the Eastside Gallery, a stretch of the wall has been preserved, painted with murals depicting images of reconciliation and peace. Si

I glance at Robert as Mr Ford strides into the classroom.  We don't say a word but I know he's thinking the same as me.  We won't get away with anything with this one.  He's just arrived at the school, the new Head of English - a solid looking man, not tall, but with an undeniable presence. Elliot, the class joker waits for all of fifteen minutes before putting Mr Ford to the test.  I'm not sure which is his most effective weapon - the look or the barbed response, but Elliot keeps his head below the parapet for the rest of the lesson - no, the rest of the year. For the first few weeks I find it difficult to find a way in.  I wonder whether English Literature was the right choice for me.  Mr Ford speaks, I listen, but nothing seems to get through.  There's no connection.  I write it all down, I produce the essays, he marks them and I'm unsurprised by my very average marks. In the second term, he tells us we'll be taking the Satire Option.  Now I kno

WRITING AS A GIFT To write is to present a gift to the reader.  And, like any other gift, it can take many forms. There is the gift designed 'just in case'.  It is not particularly special.  It is for just about anyone who comes along unexpectedly, any number of potential recipients, suitable for a wide variety of readers.  It sits in your 'gift drawer', or your computer, waiting for the right opportunity to be given. It may be edited slightly - or rewrapped- before being presented, so as to appear customised. Then, there may be the gift which you quite like yourself but are not sure if the recipients will.  So you hang on to it for a while until you can decide whether or not it will ever see the light of day.  But, because you are a writer, you really must pass it on.  Otherwise, what is the point? There is, of course, the gift which you wrote ages ago and with which you are not particularly pleased.  It lays around for a long time, unwrapped, unfinished.  Yo