Lismore Immrama Festival of Travel Writing - Creative Writing with Robyn Rowland

Beautiful landscape, an inspiring facilitator, a wonderful building. Everything was in place for this being an excellent morning of writing.

Lismore Immrama Festival of Travel Writing is a festival, which has been held annually, in the beautiful and historical town of Lismore in County Waterford, Ireland, since 2003.

Last Saturday, I was really pleased to be attending a creative writing workshop, led by Robyn Rowland - an Australian Irish poet.

The session itself was enormously enjoyable. Robyn introduced herself and then spent time getting to know each one of us, as individuals, before speaking about her fascinating interest in archaeology and writing as archaeology of our own life experiences. It was genuinely fascinating and a concept I had not previously thought about. 

We looked at images of artefacts, buildings and bodies from Pompeii, The Irish Bogs, Troy and various other sites from ancient Greece and Turkey and many other places. After that, Robyn led us on a guided meditation, and then we were free to write anything which we felt compelled to write. 

My own inspiration came from the bodies and it occurred to me that our own bodies can be archaeologically explored to tell the story of our lives, through the scars and lines and other features that are added to our bodies as we age and experience life,  illness and injury.

At the time, my sister was going through her recovery from a hysterectomy. She has been unlucky with her health, has been through multiple surgeries and suffers from a range of incurable, invisible illnesses, which impinge on her daily life constantly. You can read more about her journey and her use of art to tell her story and reach and support other sufferers of invisible illnesses on her blog: blog.endowarrior.co.uk

Prior to her hysterectomy, my sister experimented with the concept of Kintsugi - an ancient Japanese method for repairing broken ceramics with gold. The idea is that in being broken, the ceramics actually become more beautiful than they were, before.

In one of her endlessly creative attempts to take back control from the effects of her illnesses, she took a jar of gold paint and painted her scars gold, posting the resulting images online, to encourage others to feel more positive about their own journeys through illness.

Images © courtesy of: @endo.adeno_warrior on Instagram

Images © courtesy of: @endo.adeno_warrior on Instagram

 Robyn's workshop and my sister's bravery led me to write this poem about how I see her - a courageous young woman who refuses to give up, no matter what is thrown at her.

Kintsugi

by Annie Bell

Kintsugi: a Japanese method for repairing broken ceramics with a special lacquer mixed with gold, silver, or platinum. The philosophy behind this ancient art is the idea that nothing is ever truly broken.

A small, plastic pot, A paintbrush in hand.

Her broken body, No-one understands.

A dig site, soon to be excavated:

Awaiting, her womb to be evacuated.

She looks at her landscape - her peaks and her troughs.

She curses the way it just hurts when she coughs

or walks

or laughs

or cleans

or sits

or rests

or sleeps

or dreams.

She hardly even goes out any more. 

When she does, it all just gets too bloody sore. 

So she looks at her landscape and scans the white lines

That mark the passing of treatments gone by.

The patterns of stretched skin, from forming her kin:

Two children: two miracles, created within.

She's broken, for sure, but not done by a mile.

She fights back. She's brave, so she musters a smile.

She lifts up her brush and she fills in each scar

With gold paint to show that she's come so far:

A beautiful, human Kintsugi jar. 

Images © courtesy of: @endo.adeno_warrior on Instagram

After we had written our pieces, we were all given the opportunity to read out our work and Robyn provided us with very useful feedback. I really enjoyed her workshop. It was fascinating, educational and very, very inspiring. If you have the chance to attend Lismore Immrama or one of Robyn's workshops, I would thoroughly recommend both.

You can follow my sister on Facebook or on Instagram: @endo.adeno_warrior

© Annie Bell 2019

Bread Tags - a Poetry and WriteNight Story

A few months back, I attended Colchester WriteNight for their session on performance poetry.

Led by Mark Brayley, this was a truly fascinating session. Mark spoke about how it is possible to convey very powerful emotions through the description of objects. He provided us with a selection of objects, including an hourglass, a clockwork robot, a cocktail shaker and others. He then instructed us to select one and write down any ideas, which came into our heads.

Next, we were asked to construct a poem, using some of those ideas.  

Strangely enough, I found myself obsessing on the subject of bread tags - the square plastic things that we used to close bread packets with, back in the 1980s, before we had to put up with the stupid sticky ones, which always seal themselves shut, and how I could use those to write about a memory that was painful for me.

This is what I came up with.

Bread Tags

by Annie Bell

She picks at the glued up tie on the bread,

stubbornly sticking. Her toast dreams are dead.

The past creeps forwards; memory awakes.

An abandoned solution - such a mistake.

An ancient invention of plastic perfection:

Flat, square, with a hole and the corners lopped off.

Every piece of plastic that ever existed, still exists.

David Attenborough drones from the TV.

Her bread liberated;

Her toast duly plated;

Her hunger soon sated.

The flavour of Marmite and toast soothes her soul.

She thinks about bread tags:

His wonderful bread tags: 

The collection of thousands he kept in a drawer.

Each one representing Marmite toast

From that comfortable host,

Who hosts with toast no more.

Every piece of plastic that ever existed, still exists.

David Attenborough drones from the TV.

But he does not

Will not.

Not ever again,

Except in her memory.

 

The event I was writing about was the death of my Grandad, when I was sixteen. He always used to make us - his large collection of grandchildren - round after round of Marmite toast, until the bread ran out.

After his death, we found that he had a box filled with old bread tags in his kitchen drawer, which he had collected over the decades. I've always wondered what he was collecting them for.

It was wonderful to be able to convey my own sadness in a way that is so much more universal than what I might ordinarily have written. The session really opened my eyes to different ways of expressing emotions and I would like to explore this concept much more.

WriteNight meets on the fourth Monday of every month, 7:30pm - 9:30pm at the Maker Space, Trinity Street, Colchester.

For more information, please follow them on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/groups/writenight/ or Twitter: @ColWriteNight 

© Annie Bell, 2019

Berechurch Mysteries - a 'Jane's Walk'

Why do you call me 'The Lady in White'?

Why do you act like I give you a fright?

Why do you see only this satin dress?

Can you not see that I look like a mess?

*

October 1845. Charlotte White wakes to find that all is not well and life, or death, will never be the same again.

Haunted by a devastating secret and compelled by powers beyond her comprehension, Charlotte must find a way to escape from the ghosts of her past, present and future, together with a torn white dress that holds brutal significance.

Life and death are, indeed, strange masters. 

* 

'Charlotte - The Lady in White' is my novel, based on the true story of Charlotte White, nee Smyth, late of Berechurch Hall, Colchester, Essex: a lady, who is said to haunt the former grounds of Berechurch Hall, to this day.

On Sunday last, as part of the annual 'Jane's Walks', my friend Wayne Baker organised a walk around the Berechurch area of Colchester, taking in various aspects of local history and local issues.

As part of this event, I was asked  to reprise my role as Charlotte. I was able to surprise the crowd off 33 walkers, by making a few appearances along the way. The first was at 'Charlotte's Pool' - a very beautiful location in Friday Woods. The second was at outside the Audley Chapel of St Michael's Church, off Berechurch Hall Road, where Charlotte was buried and her burial monument still remains. 

There, outside the Audley Chapel, I surprised the walkers, by appearing again and performing 'My Past Existence': the poem, which opens my novel.

After this, inside the Audley Chapel, I read an extract from 'Charlotte - The Lady in White', set in the Audley Chapel itself.

The walk appeared to be well received by the walkers, the weather behaved itself and Charlotte's story was shared, once more, with the people of Colchester.

Photo courtesy of Belinda Baker

For more information on Charlotte White and my adventures in researching her life, please read the following past posts from this blog.

Remembering Auntie Hazel - an extract from 'Charlotte - The Lady in White'

Jane's Walk - Monkwick Memories - A Charlotte White Story
Charlottes Pool - History and Legend
More on Charlotte White nee Smyth
My Past Existence - Charlotte White nee Smyth
Charlotte's Pool
Charlotte Exhibition Preparation Part 2
Charlotte Exhibition Preparation Part 1
Charlotte's Pool Colchester

© Annie Bell 2019

The Bird - a poem

In light of recent events across the world, I, like most people, have been pondering the importance of love over hate and light over darkness.

Back when I was sixteen (1996, eek!), I wrote a poem about freedom and peace, which I confess is a little cynical but which has been playing in my mind rather a lot since the weekend, so I thought I would share it. 

The poem is by no means perfect - there are rhythmic errors in it, but I felt that it should be presented as my sixteen year old self would have wanted it. 

The Bird

If I were a bird up high in a tree,

I'd live life in peace as free as can be.

My eyes they would sparkle, my beak it would sing,

In time with the old church as Sunday bells ring.

I would fly to your rooftop to sing you a song

Of freedom and peace as the old bells they dong.

The guns would still shoot, the trees would still fall

And religious conflicts would cause trouble to all.

If I were a bird up high in a tree,

Lets face it you'd shoot me, I'm dispensable, me.

 

© Annie Bell 2015

to Kenneth George Bell - a poem of remembrance

Being Armistice Day, I wanted to share a poem about a member of my family, who gave his life in World War II - my Great Uncle Ken.

In 2008, I took a trip to northern Germany to find the grave of my Grandad's eldest brother - Ken, of the Welch Regiment, who was killed in action on April 10th 1945, aged 27, near to Soltau, where he is now buried in Becklingen War Cemetery. 

In honour of his memory, I wrote him a poem, which I left on his grave and which is laid out below.

To Kenneth George Bell

You had parents and brothers, a sister, no wife

On the day that you gave, for your country, your life

You gave up your future and never grew old

Never had any children – a destiny sold

The result was a future for all of your kin

But the rest of your life would never begin

You were never forgotten and always were missed

More than six decades later you do still exist,

In the thoughts and the memories of those who remain

In the tears in their eyes when they hear your name

And when bugles are playing that haunting refrain

To remind us of sacrifice made time and again 

© Annie Bell 2015

Grave inscription:

 Though absent, you are ever near
Still loved and missed and ever dear