portrait of a week

A PoRtrait of a Week

Published and printed by Freerange Press for copies or more information please contact: [email protected] or www.freerangeartists.co.uk

Created in association with Carlisle SpeakEasyas part of the Carlisle Arts Festival 2009

www.carlisle-arts-festival.co.ukwww.speakeasycarlisle.kk5.org

CONTENTS

Carlisle Artists: Saturday 18th July .........Poetry MachineThe Days Pass Me...........................................Kerryann BlackKnitting Memories...........................................Dave SimmonsHaiku......................................................................................AnonThe Universs Terrifies Me.............................Christian ReayA Surprise at Sea...................................................Natalie KerrThe Blitz.........................................................................Ruth CoxMy Senses.......................................................................Tom CoxLiar.............................................................................Izzy GarrattBehold.......................................................................Izzy GarrattMovies and Poems in Foxes Cafe...............Poetry MachineFriday Night in Cockermouth..........................................TonyTwo Haiku.............................................................................AnonThe Midnight Air.............................................Kerryann BlackYour Scratch...............................................................David GaleWedding Ring............................................................David Galeexcerpts from: Email chat between Mother and Daughter .....................................Mj and Di ClaySmile for a while in Foxes Lifestyle ....................................................................Christine BowebankNovember 1953 - England 3 Hungary............John CrosbyOpen Season Wolf Hunt..................................Katie MetcalfePoem for James (a Draft).............................Poetry Machine Life Jenga....................................................................Sue HewittI Feel..............................................................................Skye WohlH.....................................................................................Skye WohlCredit Due................................................................Len GordonBeauty is all around Me...............................Kerryann BlackImages: The Poetry Cafe: 17/7/2009 -25/7/2009The Light Shone Down.................................Poetry Machine

A PoRtrait of a Week:

A collection of poetry from the Carlisle Arts Festival-

Edited by Nick Pemberton and Ben Wohl

For the last week, as part of Carlisle Arts Festival, Lowther Arcade has been transformed into a series of art galleries and installations. Down at the end, in what was once a fantastic sandwich shop, we ran an informal poetry cafe. We had a couple of magazine launches, a couple of evenings of readings and a day time drop in for anyone who wanted to talk about poetry. To our surprise there were quite a few of those and we invited anyone who wanted to leave us a poem and said we’d print a book of whatever came in by the close of the festival. This was six days ago. The last submission came in this morn-ing -last day of the festival. So, if you’re reading this then we’ve made it; -there’s nothing like a deadline and a lot of coffee to stop writers sitting about talking.

Speaking of coffee, as well as asking people to submit their own poems we also visited other arts festival venues and asked people to fill in questionnaires about what they’d been doing, thinking, seeing, and feeling. We then fed these into The Po-etry Machine (See diagram) which works by having words and coffee fed into it. Turn the handle thrice anticlockwise twice clockwise and from this fusion of bean and ideas emerges a kind of poetry. Hopefully, these “poems” also give a feel-ing of the festival, the weather, and the mood of a few people walking through a week of the arts in our rough and tough Border City.

Nick Pemberton and Ben Wohl

Our eyes see, hands feel,Body senses and we think:-we understand it.

Janis Young

21/06/09THE LIGHT SHONE DOWN

For the first time in yearssomeone got a haircutand the light shone downwithout a word.

The weather was miserable but the light broke through itwithout caring.

Someone met a friend someone felt good and the light shone down on them bothwithout a thought.

Someone envied someone else’s talentand the light shone downwithout taking sides.

Someone saw the miserable weather,stayed in bed till twelve, felt sad and the light shone downwithout knowing sadness.

And some one had seen too many art worksand someone felt, damp, soggy and inspired and the light broke on us all without knowing happiness.

And someone felt full up with food and coated in culture and acted on an impulse and did this artistic thing

and saw Carlisle in a different light.

POETRY MACHINE

CONTENTS


Carlisle Artists: Saturday 18th July

The artists in Carlisle know there is rain in the gardenbecause they have seen it fall.

The artists know there are feet on the cobblestonesBecause they have heard them.

The artists in Carlisle know there is a woman in a red silk camisole topBecause they have seen her dance.

An artist in Carlisle knows there is a Christmas tree igloo in an art gallery Because he watched another artist build it.

The artists in Carlisle know they are hungry Because they are hungry all the time.

This Saturday afternoon in Carlisle,artists watched the end of a slimming competition,a wedding on a red carpet, a hand on a steel bar, and the afternoon omnibus of Emmerdale.

They saw themselves in the mirror cleaning their teeth. They drove their cars, sat in their seats,worried about their friends and danced in the streetsand read about themselves in the paper.

Carlisle artists say they’re going to work harderand spend more time in the studio.

Carlisle artists are thinking about the pastAnd wondering whether to go out tonight.

An artist in Carlisle feels sad. An artist in Carlisle feels free.

Poetry Machine

The Days Pass Me By

I lie and wonder how the days pass me by.I watch my baby's smile.I lie and think of what she'll want to be.Maybe a dancer, or even a queen,maybe a teacher or a poet instead. One day she'll choose and she'll choose wellwho knows we shall wait and see.I hope she'll become everything she wants to be.

Kerryann Black

Knitting Memories

One of three boysOur needles were toysAround mother we sitHer hope that we knitA piece with no holeAn unfulfilled goal.

Dave Simmons

Haiku

Today I did some thinking.I saw many booksand felt elated.

Anon

The Universe Terrifies Me

When I was only five I was scared of being nineBut then I reached that age and everything felt fine,When I was only twelve I couldn’t imagine being eighteen.The thought of growing up made me want to screamBut I spent the night of my eighteenth birthday having sexIn a van ande it felt pretty good though it wasn’tIn the plan and even though the next year the loveWasn’t as great I kind of thought:“Well, I’ll get what I can take.”

That’s when I learned you can’t plan for things in life-you’ll have some good days, you’ll havew some bad nights,It’s all relative, nothing’s set in stone,The things you have to find out, you can find out on your own.

So I’m twenty years old, soon I’ll be twenty oneBut will I still be writing, will I still be playing songs?I don’t know of course. I’d like to say yesBut in all probability that’s nothing but a guess.I might wake up tomorrow and find I am dead(I’m aware it’s a paradox but it’s always been said)Perfect health is an impossibility.I might have a tumour right now inside of me.

Eight years ago my uncle went to ride his bike,He fell off and bumped his head and that changed his life –he lost half of his brainand now he lives in a wheelchairand each day is spent in twenty four hour care. So I wonder, if that was me, would I have The strength to carry on orwould I cease to be?Never be able to dance again, make love, climb a treeBut just lie in bed all day and watch daytime tv.I don’t think I could. I don’t think I would.

This life throws us so many questionsAnd we’ll never be able to answer them.Smart people write their books But it’s only their opinion. A paperbackBought for eleven ninety nine won’t change your life.It will barely pass the time. It might answer a few questions or highlight some problemsBut only through experience can we expect to solve them.Sometimes I’m so unhappy and I really don’t know whyYet when I go to funerals I can never seem to cry.

This life is something you can’t prepare forThis life is something you can’t rehearseAll I know is that in my tiny mindI am absolutely terrrified of this gut-wrenchingHeart breaking, ever expanding universe.

Christian Reay

The Poetry Cafe: Carlisle Arts

Festival

17/7/2009 - 25/7/2009

A Surprise at Sea

As I swim through the turquoise waterI see something in the distance.I decide to swim closer.As I reach it, it disappears.I float like a fish until, suddenly, something rises beneath me.I look down to see a bluey grey crescent.It feels smooth. I suddenly know what it is...

a DOLPHIN!!

Natalie Kerr (Age 10)

The Blitz

It is a crime taking lives for itselfit is hellit is anxiety taking overThe blitz is warm colours and yet i’s cold.It it washing machine going round andround until it needs to stopit is a thorn.It is a hurtful wasp

Ruth Cox (Age 11)

Beauty is All Around Me

The wind on my facethe scuffling of the leavesthe rain in my hair is all a dream to me.The beauty of the dawn and magical sundown. It's my dreams that are fascinating for me.The birds singing in the tall treesand the dancing butterflies; -it's beautiful to me.

The shining sweet glow as the sun warms your heart;-while it turns into darkness it still shimmers and shines in the moonlight.You lift your head thinking it's all just a dreamtill you open your eyes to all the little thingsyou've seen and see that it's not just a dream.

Kerryann Black

My senses

I can see the beautiful flowers gently blowing in the wind.I can hear birds singing from atop the trees.I can feel the sunshine beating down on my forehead. I can smell the beefburgers sizzling on my barbaque.I can taste the fresh air emerging from the trees.

Tom Cox (Age 9)

Credit Due

Leafless trees Backed by wintery lightSpell promise To the morning's airBringing closer into thoughtThe chance that spring's In slumber there.

Len Gordon (publisher of Raven 1976-1985)

Liar

Liar, liarheart on fire,balancing on the edgeof the tightrope wire.

Fall to the left and lose everything you've got.Fall to the rightAnd lose everything you're not.

Liar, liartongue on firespinning wicked rhymes of sinfrom love and desiretwisting words like thorn and briar.

Liar, liarI'm on fire,for your dirty little secrets take me higher and higher.

Izzy Garratt

H

H is outsideH is on her bikeH is insideH is where she belongsH is right in the sky

H is running awayH is on a raceH is through a placeH is throwing firsbeesH is playing firsbeeH is telling jokesH loves coming out H loves coming in H loves coming into long words

H wants to be in the town H is just arrivedH is going to school H is going home form school H is listening to her radioH is looking at the artist movieH is watching a movie H is saying versus H is singing songsH is taking bisbeesH is playing in the garden H is playing her play houseH is coming along the websiteH is watching cbbs moviesH is listening to cbbiesH is watching cbbiesH loves watching cbbies Skye Wohl (Age 5)

Behold

Why do people mourn me? Why do the children wail? Death's scythe takes one, leaves another,So do not moan or bewail.Open your eyes and see the stars,I see them sparkle in your eyes.I am them and they are me,Our worlsd is full of lies.Is grass grass or is it me,Do I watch you from below.Am I the acorn that falls at your feetFrom which a tree will grow.I am the sun shines through your window; I am the promise of a day,I am the wind that blows the hair off your faceAnd chases your blues away. So why do you mourn me?Behold... I am free. Everything is together once again in death:-I am you and you could be me.

Izzy Garratt

I Feel

I feel like an orangeI feel like a corrangeI feel like the blue sky up thereI feel like everywhere

I feel like china(I added that bit in because I thought china would be a very good first to put in )I feel like the sun shine above I feel like the splashing air

I feel like diggin holes ( I put that in because I thought it would be funny)I feel like like being in a carI feel like going past signs I feel like smelling my wardrobeI feel like being in my bed

I feel like being with paddington I feel like listening to my radioI feel like going to sleep at bed timeI feel like making the sun shine riseI feel like godI feel like jesus

I feel like anythingI feel like everything, I mean

I feel like being in a country where there is loads of building being madeI feel like being in a country that has load of buildings made of straw and hay bed for the ways that they fall

when they bounce on their beds, and they fall off of them, with the hard sheet hanging on tightly. Skye Wohl (Age 5)

Movies and Poems in Foxes Café 20/06/09

Someone in the café had seen an ambulance.A man with a notebook makes a note of this fact.

A girl had been stung by a bee and killed it.Her sister had made a film. On a sofa, a guy sits with his arm around his girlfriend.

The man with the notebook notes this down too.

A man from the east Coast sat in the window says he got up late, caught a train, saw a dog being sick in a doorway and talked to a man who he claimed had owed him money for a year.

His friend, drinking gin and tonic, has put a new plaster over the hole heart surgery had left in his chest. Now he wonders why he is there.

Earlier, a woman, on her own, had witnessedthe humiliation of a serious man not being taken seriously

and downstairs an American thinks she’d like to move to England

and the man beside her remembers giving his best friend a piggy backacross a flood and watching swans and ducklings scatterand feeling loved. He smiles. The smile is noted down.

Being two places at onceOn the phone and in the bathZero time to get from here to thereNo hours allocated to sleep or shopOnly moments to shower or eat

The tic in my eyelidThe wakeful hours of darknessThe blank where that thought used to beScratchy eyesThe deep pervading wearinessThe need for immediate but impossible rescueThe desperate lust to be nurturedThis is stressRecognise it for what it isName and tame the beastThat stalks along the motorway traffic jamThat lurks behind the printer just run out of tonerThat gets ready to pounce as hopeless deadlines loom

Pull upPull overStopChillReflectAnd ask

Should I build the blocks up again?

Sue Hewitt

The man with his arm around his girlfriend on the sofa has just picked her up from detox. Earlier, on the ward,she’d stopped a big guy bullying a little guy -and outsideher boyfriend had been watching two kids fight over a plastic toy. He’s wondering whether to cut the grass tomorrow. She’s wondering about tomorrow. What will happen?

The girl who makes films wonders about the way we watch them.Her sister, who killed the bee, wonders about nature. The man with the notebook wonders at the relentlessprocesses we endure. He writes down a word. Then another. Love. And then: kindness. He adds a question mark to the firstand then underlines the second. He closes the book.

POETRY MACHINE

Life Jenga

Everything in here slots together perfectlyIts all delicately balancedEach piece dependent on the otherAn intricate pattern of tessellationA solid structure of successAnd yetIts easySo easyTo knock out one pieceJust one tiny pieceThe missed phone callThe unanswered email or textThe cancelled workOr rescheduled meetingThe delayed departureOr forgotten appointment

Remove this tiny pieceAnd like a massive game of JengaThe pieces that are my life and workTumble down around meAnd I’m into crisis management modeMove X to YY to Z, Z to ADo C instead of D, try D tomorrow or maybe next weekGo there before elsewhere instead of afterAchieve the impossibleMaintain the balanceRebuild

Friday Night in Cockermouth

As weekend nearsand heartbreak endsthoughts turn to ships andbitter ends.

There to meet your real seklfand pay for such with failing health.From BoHo chic to space cantinasto end it all in new arenas.

Tony

Two Haiku

I am a translatorso my news of the weatheris of somewhere else.

My friends are dyingmy family demented: -winter’s narrow road.

Anon

Poem for James (a draft) (Arcade Poetry cafe 23/7/2009)

He’d come from The Griffin, was on his way to the Club,when he walked through a door in the world. He didn’t know why he’d done it. Only that he wanted to. The door led into memories. Some things you can remember,he thought, others you can’t. Some you don’t want to, but you do.

He remembered when he was young. He used to swim in the River Petteril near the Old Railway Club and swing out over the water on a rope tied to tree branch. There was no money about and he wore second hand clothes. He remembered bike rides to the country on his big brother’s bikepicking blackberries and scrumping apples. His mum put food on the table for himand for two brothers and a sister.

His mum, was like any mum, he said,-loving, caring, protecting her brood. A hundred percent for the kids. Now, she has an illness that day by day,week by week takes away her memory, and so takes who she is, away.

And now, two years of marriage and twenty seven years of courting later, some drinking,some fighting, some robbing, some prison, (a roundabout -still spinning- from which he’s stepped off) he knows he was always frightened.Frightened of people, of life, of crowds, of language.

He used to rage at the thing that was takinghis mother. Now he knows it will end in sadness. That even memories, like straw, will blow awayfrom the scrubbed stone doorstep of each new day.

POETRY MACHINE

The Midnight Air

I am sitting looking far as I can seeBreathing the midnight air,The houses around me in darknessWhile every street lies still in silence.The moon and stars glisten in the beautiful night sky. Street lights stand tall tall and light for all to see. So the end is so near there's a new life waiting for me. As sunrise grows near I get ready to face the placed before me...Good or bad.

Kerryann Black

Open Season Wolf Hunt

It was your land to begin with.

Your grass,your snow,your trees, bushes, hills. Your sky, your moon, your sand, stone, marsh. Your heather, fern, moor, moss, your mountains.Your stars. Your silence.

Now, in the heartland of your home, there is a clash of civilisations,wolves vs humans has reached a new and violent phase.

Come September, when the sun rises lower in the sky, when the leaves fall redand the ground is bruised with appleswhen the sky is sheltered earler in the day and the lake is cooler,ordinary people, with a sheet of papercan gun your packs down - greys, whites, blacks.

Not trained, their silver shall shatter your shoulders,sever your tail, splinter your spine.

You, ice age survivor, take sheltyer early, behind the hills,

for come September, populations of our people shall piss on your territory, packl you in and drag you back by hind legs or jaw, cracked, snapped, beaten for polished empty plaques on walls encroaching your habitat.

Sorry.

Katie Metcalfe

Your Scratch

Part of you to ponder...

This is no injection moulding stumpor whole of a vacuum sealed packno percussuion scar or chip off the old block


This is no scratch, hardly a pinprickbut a puncture, a vicious jaba wound to your silky smooth skin


A unique blemish to attend tosoft smoothness of inner you to strokea knot to paw in your growth


How I wish to poke insideA hand in the bagto wander over all things nice

The part of you I ponder...

Is everyone's marklife within lifelove and heart

David Gale

November 1953 - England 3 Hungary 6

A well oiled machine, a well oiled machineThis magnificent Magyar’s a well oiled machineGive him an inch, he takes a mileNo England player can manage a smile.

A joy to behold, a joy to beholdThis magnificent Magyar’s a joy to beholdThe skill he shows brings just the sameFor any who truly love this game.

Poetry in motion, poetry in motionThis magnificent Magyar is poetry in motionA back-heel. A swerve a release of the bootA swift moving arc describing the shoot.

As swift as a weaver’s shuttle the pathPast poor Gil Merrick with justified wrathHe looks on his hapless beleaguered defenceBut they’ve seen nothing to match this offence.

A game of two halves, a game of two halvesThat little matters to this soccer kingHe moves as a craftsman amidst artisansGathering and keeping adoring new fans.

He is roly poly and has but one footBut Wright and his colleagues look the muttHe belies any critic who dares to gainsayThis man as a meteor lights up the play.

The writing is truly on the wallThe England repute needs but a pallWith colleagues like Botzik, Koscis and GuchiThe England defence is breached like Suchi.

The record unbeaten’s now dead as a dodoThis Puskas has braked too hard for FerodoBut look at the wider picture pleaseThe GAME is the victor so have no unease.

John Crosby

Wedding Ring

Twisting, twistingwhat do you see in your ring? A reminder that you're caughtpossessed and belonging?

Twisting, twistingwarder of uncomfortable thoughtsthe bit of him that wears telling marks in your flesh.

Twisting, twistinglike the lid of a very tight jarunyielding and slipping aches your hand and heart.

David Gale

Smile for a while in Foxes Lifestyle (commercial break)

Let me re-cap in rhyme of our thursday chill-out time...On a recommendation we went to Foxes, tho the décor didn'tpromote any boxes!Instead lots of pictures paraded thewall, all of them for sale...both large & small.We sat on comfy chairs at thefoot of the stairs where the startof our experience began. Ambience friendly as thewaiters put us at ease with nothinga problem as their aim was to please.We began first of all with a flavoured milky drink, then aslunchtime approached it was time again to think!With lots on the menu we asked for advice of what it entailed...Not the price!!!They gave us a discription of thevarious juicy drinks then laterintroduced us to the latest lingo...'Minx'!Soup of the day was a very tastychoice that left out pallettes with an'Oooh Aaah voice'Our next course we shared- Topmarkes for presentation, that consisted of colours worthy of an ovation.The time spent there was truly worthwhile so by way of appreciation WE LEFT WITH A SMILE : ) Christine Bowebank

'Fatwords'oozing full but empty meaningwhat I've said and what I'm feelingSoundshoundand try to speakbut shout and scratch and sometimes squeakA pirouette trips off my tonguelike it started in my lunga stream of currents whirl and swirlas words so fickle twist and twirl.

over the hill

up the path and across the fieldmuddy way with golden leavesjump the gate and trample throughand from the top what a viewfading day and greying skytelling us that night is nighvillage lights below us glowas we pick out the roads we knowwaves are breaking on the shoreriver, estuary and moordown the lane a new way backa rocky tree lined farmers trackthe church is now a silhouetteand to the pub we pirouette.

down-at-mouth

all so difficulttrying to get my head roundgrappling with ideasneed to understandwhat do they meanam I being stupidwhat is my mouth doingam I going downdown at mouth?

out the windowgrey roof shining dampred brick patterns closing inall of us on this streeteverywhere secret everywhere closeda car will passsomeone will shoutor in the silence a footfall sootheslives surround meclose me inout the window

What I didn't sayTodayI held it in

Held backTo hide the crackThat often I slip in

Not becauseI never wasand one day want to be

but here and nowI'm learning howWe edit what we see

excerpts from: Email chat between mother and daughter

Mj and Di Clay

Laughdidn't think I wouldor I couldbut it just happenedout it camemy sides started to hurtand I rememberedYouLaughing too. There's a smile on my face

when I read about yoursWhen I remember hissome back in time momentswhen laughter was freewhen shared air receivedand eyes exchanged

When many had one laughing voicedifferences joining without a cracksave that which caused our sides to splitand all we said became one wordacknowledging that life itselfis sometimes known, embraced and feltas totally absurd

Wedding Ring

Twisting, twistingwhat do you see in your ring? A reminder that you're caughtpossessed and belonging?

Twisting, twistingwarder of uncomfortable thoughtsthe bit of him that wears telling marks in your flesh.

Twisting, twistinglike the lid of a very tight jarunyielding and slipping aches your hand and heart.

David Gale

Smile for a while in Foxes Lifestyle (commercial break)

Let me re-cap in rhyme of our thursday chill-out time...On a recommendation we went to Foxes, tho the décor didn'tpromote any boxes!Instead lots of pictures paraded thewall, all of them for sale...both large & small.We sat on comfy chairs at thefoot of the stairs where the startof our experience began. Ambience friendly as thewaiters put us at ease with nothinga problem as their aim was to please.We began first of all with a flavoured milky drink, then aslunchtime approached it was time again to think!With lots on the menu we asked for advice of what it entailed...Not the price!!!They gave us a discription of thevarious juicy drinks then laterintroduced us to the latest lingo...'Minx'!Soup of the day was a very tastychoice that left out pallettes with an'Oooh Aaah voice'Our next course we shared- Topmarkes for presentation, that consisted of colours worthy of an ovation.The time spent there was truly worthwhile so by way of appreciation WE LEFT WITH A SMILE : ) Christine Bowebank

Your Scratch


This is no injection moulding stumpor whole of a vacuum sealed packno percussuion scar or chip off the old block


This is no scratch, hardly a pinprickbut a puncture, a vicious jaba wound to your silky smooth skin


A unique blemish to attend tosoft smoothness of inner you to strokea knot to paw in your growth


How I wish to poke insideA hand in the bagto wander over all things nice

The part of you I ponder...

Is everyone's marklife within lifelove and heart

David Gale

November 1953 - England 3 Hungary 6

A well oiled machine, a well oiled machineThis magnificent Magyar’s a well oiled machineGive him an inch, he takes a mileNo England player can manage a smile.

A joy to behold, a joy to beholdThis magnificent Magyar’s a joy to beholdThe skill he shows brings just the sameFor any who truly love this game.

Poetry in motion, poetry in motionThis magnificent Magyar is poetry in motionA back-heel. A swerve a release of the bootA swift moving arc describing the shoot.

As swift as a weaver’s shuttle the pathPast poor Gil Merrick with justified wrathHe looks on his hapless beleaguered defenceBut they’ve seen nothing to match this offence.

A game of two halves, a game of two halvesThat little matters to this soccer kingHe moves as a craftsman amidst artisansGathering and keeping adoring new fans.

He is roly poly and has but one footBut Wright and his colleagues look the muttHe belies any critic who dares to gainsayThis man as a meteor lights up the play.

The writing is truly on the wallThe England repute needs but a pallWith colleagues like Botzik, Koscis and GuchiThe England defence is breached like Suchi.

The record unbeaten’s now dead as a dodoThis Puskas has braked too hard for FerodoBut look at the wider picture pleaseThe GAME is the victor so have no unease.

John Crosby