Haven Hereford - Post Script

Self will intrude.  Friday February 15th 2013 saw my last workshop with the Hereford Haven and it was a bittersweet experience.

I have loved working with all the staff and visitors at the Hereford Haven. 

Visit  http://www.thehaven.org.uk/ for more information about this wonderful organisation.

There was also cake on my last day which mingled with tea and salt tears was a delicious solace. My special thanks to Sue's mum for going to so much effort.

Over the last few years I have worked with many wonderful Haven people who have enriched my life and I am sad to say goodbye but have an exciting new life in Scotland to console me. 

I can't name all of the people (you know who you are!) I have worked with but send special thanks to Sue, Yvette, Sonia, Annie, Helen, Rhian, Hilary and Siriol who shared wisdom and kindness with me during this last season of creative writing workshops. 

Sally 

Gardenstown
Scotland


I sign off with a Scottish poem:

The "Lay of the Last Minstrel" by Sir Walter Scott

O Caledonia! stern and, wild, Meet nurse for a poetic child! Land of brown heath and shaggy wood Land of the mountain and the flood, 

BUT so far this sheltered corner of Caledonia is not proving particularly stern or wild compared with the rest of the UK this spring. Will I find poetic inspiration while enjoying soft and mild?   

Haven Hereford - Change 5 - Changing attitudes to Animals

The human animal is not always fair to other species.  In Britain there have been changes in the way we treat animals over the years and in the 20th Century we began to legislate to protect animals from exploitation. This is a huge subject so I decided to focus on bears! 

Here's a lovely short poem about Polar Bears:

The Polar Bear

Jack Prelutsky

The polar bear by being white
gives up his camouflage at night,
And, yet without a thought or care,
he wanders here, meanders there,
and gaily treads the ice floes
completely unconcerned with foes.
For after dark nobody dares
to set out after polar bears.

Not so very long ago men were still seen at fairs leading "dancing bears" on chains and making them "dance" as a spectacle in order to earn a few coins. 

This photograph was taken in England in the early 20th century.

Then we did a huge BEAR mindmap and talked about bearish things and especially all those fictional bears that have made us sentimental about this rather large and scary creature. There were some wonderful family anecdotes told about ancestors who had had dealings with bears. 

Fictional Bears 

include Winnie the Pooh and Paddington Bear who have both had phenomenal success in many countries and over many years. 

We discussed the motive for humans trying to make such a large wild animal seem small and cuddly.  Is it a need to overcome our fear of the wilderness or is it simply that the bear has such cool hair? 

Finally - if ever you need cheering up watch the Youtube clip of the splendid Michael Rosen performing "We're Going on a Bear Hunt".  

Haven Hereford - Change 4 - A Change of Scene

A change of air has always been considered beneficial and, if we can't travel, we humans have the gift of imagination:

Spike Milligan created a perfect escape from drab reality.

In the Land of the Bumbley Boo

Spike Milligan

(extract)

In the land of the Bumbley Boo

The People are red white and blue,
They never blow noses,
Or ever wear closes,
What a sensible thing to do!

In the land of the Bumbley Boo
You can buy Lemon pie at the zoo;
They give away foxes
In little Pink Boxes
And Bottles of Dandylion Stew.

We enjoyed describing our favourite escapes and many of us find that we don't need to leave home in order to experience a "change of scene".  Then we read this colourful poem describing the joy that the seaside can bring. 

Jack Mapanje -Poet, linguist and human rights activist, Mapanje has published about five poetry books and has poems in three anthologies of poetry from Africa.

 The Seashells of Bridlington North Beach

(for Mercy Angela)

(an extract)

She hated anything caged, fish particularly,
Fish caged in glass boxes, ponds, whatever;

‘Reminds me of prisons and slavery,’ she said;
So, when first she caught the vast green view

of Bridlington North Beach shimmering that
English Summer day, she greeted the sight like

A Sahara girl on parched feet, cupping, cupping,
Cupping the water madly, laundering her palms,

Giggling and laughing, then rubbing the hands
On her skirt, she threw her bottom on the sandy

Beach and let the sea breathe in and out on her
As she relaxed her crossed legs – ‘Free at last!’

Finally we read an extraordinary piece of travel writing by Dickens from "Pictures From Italy". I think that Dickens was what we now call a "thrill-seeker" and he thought nothing of climbing over the Simplon Pass at night in the depths of winter in a horse-drawn carriage. 

Pictures from Italy is a travelogue by Charles Dickens, written in 1846.

It was ten o’clock at night when we got to Domo d’Ossola,

at the foot of the Pass of the Simplon. But as the moon was

shining brightly, and there was not a cloud in the starlit sky,

it was no time for going to bed, or going anywhere but on.

So, we got a little carriage, after some delay, and began the

ascent.

It was late in November; and the snow lying four or five

feet thick in the beaten road on the summit (in other parts

the new drift was already deep), the air was piercing cold.

But, the serenity of the night, and the grandeur of the road,

with its impenetrable shadows, and deep glooms, and its

sudden turns into the shining of the moon and its incessant

roar of falling water, rendered the journey more and more

sublime at every step.

Soon leaving the calm Italian villages below us, sleeping

in the moonlight, the road began to wind among dark trees,

and after a time emerged upon a barer region, very steep and

toilsome, where the moon shone bright and high.

 By degrees, the roar of water grew louder; and the stupendous

track, after crossing the torrent by a bridge,

struck in between two massive perpendicular walls of rock

 that quite shut out the moonlight, and only left a few stars shining in

the narrow strip of sky above. Then, even this was lost, in

the thick darkness of a cavern in the rock, through which

the way was pierced; the terrible cataract thundering and

roaring close below it, and its foam and spray hanging, in a

mist, about the entrance.

Emerging from this cave,and coming again

into the moonlight, and across a dizzy bridge, it

crept and twisted upward, through the Gorge of Gondo,

savage and grand beyond description, with smooth-fronted

precipices, rising up on either hand, and almost meeting

overhead. Thus we went, climbing on our rugged way, higher

and higher all night, without a moment’s weariness: lost in

the contemplation of the black rocks, the tremendous heights

and depths, the fields of smooth snow lying, in the clefts and

hollows, and the fierce torrents thundering headlong down

the deep abyss.

Are you a thrill seeker or an armchair traveller?  Either way the power to transport oneself in the imagination is a valuable gift.