workshop thirteen
17th September 2017
(deadline for submissions for online feedback- 8th October)
Welcome back after the summer break.
1.
I would like you to think about pieces of furniture in your home or a home from the past, comfortable chairs sagging because they have held so many people over the years, or how about that gleaming hob in the kitchen, or a white fridge covered in fridge magnets like mine is, or your sturdy wooden desk. How about the hissing steam iron and the sturdy ironing board, or your glowing bedside lamp?
Now think about people in your life, past and present. Do they remind you of a piece of furniture? Does Grandad remind you of a comfy arm chair, well worn, loved? Does your smart, well made up auntie remind you of an elegant vase? I am sure when you start thinking about it you will come up with lots of comparisons.
For inspiration here is a poem by Rachael Clyne. She has kindly given me permission to use it here:
THREE PIECE SUITE
Mother is a rickety chair, teeters,
needs a wedge to steady her,
prop her up. A chair from the Old Country,
carried on backs, luggage racks, smuggled
across borders. Father is a wooden ironing board
shut in the under-stairs cupboard. Lost
in a cloud, the piercing hiss of steam-iron
hearing aids, the irritable bash of his klomper.
Grandma is a pouffe, leathery, round; smells
of olives, lemon tea and occasional
shit on her shaky fingers – teeth in her
dressing gown pocket. Between chair,
ironing board and pouffe, I am their horseshoe
magnet bristling with pins.
RACHAEL CLYNE
(from NO NEWS YET : poems from poetry space competition 2015 ed. Myra Schneider.)
Spend some time thinking about why Rachael’s poem works so well. Don’t just rush into writing your own poem.
Then take a look at Simon Armitage’s Not the Furniture Game
Again spend time reflecting on this.
Poems that you come up with along these lines will be making use of extended metaphors
2.
Now think about pieces of furniture in your house that hold memories. I have a nursing chair in my study. It is the same age as me as Mum bought it when she was about to give birth to me. Then there was the chair out in my Dad’s conservatory that we had to get rid of after he died. I wrote about someone coming to buy it:
About a Chair
He’s here about a chair
And there it sits
solid, white tubby.
I’m clearing out I say.
Indicate the few remaining items,
gilt mirror leaning up against the wall,
a gadget to spin
and pick numbers for the pools
The singing bowl hums
as the wooden stick skims its surface.
I smooth the fabric
on the chair.
It was hardly used I say,
just for people visiting.
Stains start small, spread out
and are difficult to remove.
It’s perfect. Something
for my son to throw his clothes over.
I usually find them on the floor.
I consider what I know of sons.
It fits.
The chair has been left out in the rain.
The rain is getting icier and will soon turn to hail.
This is Dad’s house I say
He’s in a nursing home
Dementia. And frail in body too
Mine too, I go on Thursdays
A hundred miles I drive. Get home, ring to say I’m back
he says
Who are you?
It’s hard I say. Hard to go. Hard to walk away
We looked after Dad here for two years.
Then it got too much.
Hail jabs the skin like numerous needles when you go out in it.
When you go out be sure to smile.
He pulls his catheter out. It’s one that goes in above the pubic bone
It gets so sore.
How long will it go on. That’s what I ask myself,
I lie awake at night with worry.
I know he’s lonely but…his voice trails off
He lifts the chair
I help him walk it through the hall
Load it in his car
He hands me a folded note, I grip his hand,
he leaves with the chair he came for.
Susan Jane Sims, June 2014
If these ideas have inspired you then please send them in by Sunday 8th October 2017 I’ll be posting a selection and giving feedback.
