tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-44430846955300063352024-03-05T14:30:30.460+00:00Sapphist WritersNicki Hastiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08688408490931426245noreply@blogger.comBlogger39125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4443084695530006335.post-3583317546880607392012-07-13T13:03:00.000+01:002012-07-29T11:03:12.569+01:00Grit and DiamondsIt's been a while since we blogged, we've been so wrapped up in anthologies, performances, exhibitions, and our own private writing projects. This July we were a small group. Sometimes, as the group's founder, I worry whether it is still working, whether that old magic is there. And then we start to write, and all is well; I feel, as ever, thankful for that special kind of chemistry when creative people get into a room together and start to riff. . .<br />
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><span class="fullpost"></span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span class="fullpost"></span></span></span></span><br />
<br />This time we did two lots of free-writing. The first, inspired by the theme of the next cafe evening at the women's centre – “jam night” (August 13th), a low-key evening where we can share music, spoken word, and art in a friendly environment. We gave ourselves 15 minutes to write from the source word “jam”. There were some fascinating results which we'll share in due course. I found myself in a vaguely Dadaist stream-of-consciousness word tumble. The joy of this group is to let myself go, uncensored and uninhibited by thoughts of markets, publishing, editing or “appropriateness”. This is the place to be free; that's why we call it free-writing. <br />
<br />We still had a little time left. We cast our eyes around the library we were writing in, and Nicki found the perfect source for the next free-write. A book entitled “Grit and diamonds” we didn't have long to write, about 7 minutes as I recall, but here, unedited, is what we came up with:<br />
<br />
<h3>
Grit and Diamonds</h3>
(Nicki)<br />
<br />No-one ever says<br />
"Grit is a girl's best friend".<br />
Perhaps because all that determination<br />
gets a girl nowhere in the end.<br /><br />
(Except up to her elbows in muck.)<br /><br />
Grit in the hoover, grit in the bath.<br />
Grit spilling out of the fire to the hearth.<br />
Grit in her teeth, clamping her jaws.<br />
Grit all over her newly-washed flaws.<br /><br />
Yet, I'll go with the grit – <br />
it's grounded and generous:<br />
welcome everywhere<br />
those diamonds don't fit.<br />
<h3>
<br />Grit and Diamonds</h3>
(Sandra)<br />
<br />
the birds awaken<br />
as does the sun<br />
my eyes open<br />
the day has begun<br />
I drag myself <br />
to kitchen sink<br />
what to make for breakfast<br />
I begin to think<br />
the Lord and Master<br />
awaits his feed<br />
the work's to be done<br />
the house is now clean<br />
then I am free<br />
I wash the grime<br />
and grit from my hands<br />
I leave the house<br />
I go to the fields<br />
I lie and look<br />
at the stars<br />
they are my diamonds<br />
my precious jewels<br />
I put my hands to the skies<br />
my diamond rings sparkle on my fingers<br />
then the clouds<br />
take my diamonds<br />
and to bed I must go<br />
for tomorrow<br />
I must cook and clean<br />
then wait for my diamonds<br />
<h3>
<br />Grit and Diamonds</h3>
(Sarah)<br />
<br />You arrive every night at the same time, on the same arm, each time a different dress. You shine, you glitter, your smile bigger and brighter than a reclining quarter moon, your neck dripping with diamonds.<br />
<br />Each night when I turn and spot that smile, I shiver inside. I feel both attracted and repelled. From the corner of the room, behind the bar, I stay stunned momentarily, then look down upon my rough attire, my suit that by comparison seems to have risen from the dirt, and know that my heart is wasted hoping that you might notice me tonight, that I might rise from the grit below.<br />
<br />
<h3>
Grit and Diamonds</h3>
(Sandy)<br />
<br />
They’re under there somewhere;<br />
that's my script.<br />
My whole life looking<br />
for diamonds under grit.<br />
<br />But oh what sparkles<br />
when I see their light!<br />
Oh what 75 carat brilliance!<br />
And what joy at the sight!<br />
<br />They elude me, but<br />
they’re there, I know<br />
they’re there, waiting,<br />
glinting, ready to show . . .<br />
<br />
Ready to glow, to warm<br />
me with their cold fire;<br />
the scratches and dirt and choking worth it -<br />
I have all that I desire. <br />
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"></span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"></span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"></span>Sandyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11798491704599957447noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4443084695530006335.post-19546653486396984372012-02-28T17:20:00.027+00:002012-02-28T18:22:20.288+00:00The Big Tree is here! Our Sapphist Writers' anthology has launched<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7NnjmUpKt29xDlEv1zgqRP21EO8J07u8l31JVWjVutVtudxQNNpIjFoV1ln3tHx9TaZN3vwV91WaBtNAL0tQjdE6QRZRjYo221uCN7qx1yKkbmRjAx7XyxaPMxcTy3fXfobDLnpHBunHm/s1600/Sapphist+Writers+Anthology+Cover.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 10px 10px 0px 0px; WIDTH: 144px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 200px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5713958742941694130" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7NnjmUpKt29xDlEv1zgqRP21EO8J07u8l31JVWjVutVtudxQNNpIjFoV1ln3tHx9TaZN3vwV91WaBtNAL0tQjdE6QRZRjYo221uCN7qx1yKkbmRjAx7XyxaPMxcTy3fXfobDLnpHBunHm/s200/Sapphist+Writers+Anthology+Cover.jpg" /></a><br />It's here, it's gorgeous, and it's a fabulous read through the multi-faceted lives and loves of lesbians historic and modern. With contributions of poetry, short stories and flash fiction from 10 members of the Sapphist Writers' group, you'll want to make sure you get your copy today, and help Nottingham Women's Centre continue to provide a focal point for women's ongoing stories. All proceeds from the £3 sale price (less any associated banking costs) will be donated to <a href="http://www.nottinghamwomenscentre.com/">Nottingham Women's Centre</a> (registered charity number 1105837).<br /><br /><strong>Download the anthology now at: <a href="http://www.sapphistwriters.org.uk/dw/">http://www.sapphistwriters.org.uk/dw/</a></strong><br /><br /><strong>The Big Tree</strong> is available as an ebook in either PDF format or as a MOBI file that is fully formatted for Amazon Kindle. Please select your preferred file format and follow the sales instructions at the <a href="http://www.sapphistwriters.org.uk/dw/">Sapphist Writers download site</a>. Your payment will be taken securely through Paypal. There is no need for you to have an existing Paypal account as you will still be able to enter your payment details securely.<br /><br />By purchasing in this way, the anthology will be delivered to your computer for you to begin reading and enjoying immediately. Save the file to computer ready to open in your chosen ereader software.<br /><br />PDF (personal document format) files can be read with the freely-available Adobe Reader software. The MOBI format can be read on Kindles or directly on a personal computer, mac or mobile device by downloading the relevant free application from Amazon. MOBI files can also be read on any mobile devices supported by MobiPocket Reader.<br /><br />If transferring to a Kindle device, first connect your Kindle to computer via the USB cable. Your Kindle will be recognised as an external drive on your computer. Navigate to the drive named 'Kindle' and open the folder there named 'documents'. In order to transfer <strong>The Big Tree</strong> successfully to your Kindle, you will need to save the downloaded MOBI file to this 'documents' folder. To learn more about transferring files to Kindle via USB, see the <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/help/customer/display.html?nodeId=200493090#usb">guidelines at Amazon.co.uk</a>.<br /><br />If you need further help with the download, or want to find out how you can purchase the anthology by alternative means (ie. you don't wish to make an online transaction), please email us at <a href="mailto:sapphistwriters@yahoo.co.uk">sapphistwriters@yahoo.co.uk</a>.<br /><br />We actively welcome your feedback and reviews. Thanks for your support.Nicki Hastiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08688408490931426245noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4443084695530006335.post-25867360749215580512012-02-05T19:32:00.002+00:002012-02-05T19:40:23.446+00:00just adding my voiceSandy, thank you for the first post of 2012 and what an amazing thing to see .... <br />Over the last week weeks working both in person and in the ether with other Sapphist writers to produce this amazing collection has been a pleasure and an inspitation. <br />I feel very proud of us all. <br />Here's to the success of the anthology and to our continuing creative collaborations. Karen xkaren waldramhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03095919627143009099noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4443084695530006335.post-58408933662355783432012-02-03T14:28:00.003+00:002012-02-03T15:09:52.337+00:00All Our Hard Work . . .<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG3rcR8sOLIMXbeLvq67fmpVIZ8bp4F6Ipu1oeIMejq6bw2yF4_sAkvA9y1xxJ1S6wUfankqTyiiTxbGUQyq9WKMHLSh7Wsd7frhx68FLJImSqOLpAlGnnRCGsqIrW_t8gRpWT4bZJUJXC/s1600/Sapphist+Writers+Anthology+flyer.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 230px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG3rcR8sOLIMXbeLvq67fmpVIZ8bp4F6Ipu1oeIMejq6bw2yF4_sAkvA9y1xxJ1S6wUfankqTyiiTxbGUQyq9WKMHLSh7Wsd7frhx68FLJImSqOLpAlGnnRCGsqIrW_t8gRpWT4bZJUJXC/s320/Sapphist+Writers+Anthology+flyer.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5704916614307284914" /></a><br /><br />On 28th February, Sapphist Writers is receiving recognition at the LGBT Celebration Evening at Nottingham Council House. We've been quiet on the blog for a while, but don't let that deceive you; Sapphist Writers have been very busy people.<br /><br />Back in October, a number of us participated in Nottingham Ladyfest 2011, a fabulous spoken word event, and since then we've been working hard on an e-anthology of our work so far. The anthology contains short stories, poems, and pieces of flash fiction that were often born at our regular monthly meetings, every piece carefully crafted and inspiring.<br /><br />I'm always amazed at the hard work people will put in together to see a project come to fruition. Even the cover picture was a collaborative effort - an evening spent with paper, paint, scissors and glue; a lesbian edition of Play School. The anthology (£3, all proceeds to Nottingham Women's Centre) will be launched at the celebration evening, and can be ordered in person on the night, or there will be a link to buy it online here at this very site from February 28th. The blog moderator will be posting more information very soon, but for the mean time I just want to sit back and wonder at this marvellous group of women and what we have achieved together. <br /><br />I've read the anthology, of course, and it had me laughing, crying, sighing and soaring. I know women will thrill at hearing these diverse voices. We don't often get a chance to see ourselves reflected honestly; only packaged, processed, stylised versions of ourselves we don't recognise. This anthology, as well as raising money to secure a women's space for all our futures, will I hope be a breath of fresh air for our community.Sandyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11798491704599957447noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4443084695530006335.post-90998562743837661662011-07-28T09:58:00.001+01:002011-07-28T10:00:00.004+01:00The power of nurtureA billion realisations are running through my brain, and I think I need to share them; I’ve been trying but failing for some time to articulate something that feels really important to me . . .<br /><br />When I set up Sapphist Writers, I had a very specific vision, and I think I’ve recently discounted my own voice and the power of that vision. Sapphist Writers was supposed to be something different, and its way of being, even though fluid and influenced by all its members had at its heart an important identity – part of which was not to be like other writer’s groups.<br /><br />I’ve had a number of conversations recently, trying to get across something of what that original intention was, but I was struggling to articulate it. I spoke of wanting the group to be nurturing and supportive, but the counterpoint was ‘yes, but is that really any use to us in developing our writing?’<br /><br />I realised that for such a long time I’ve been getting massive amounts of feedback on my writing from various other sources – from beta readers, from fellow members of my writer’s course, from tutors, from a particularly insightful partner, and even from other individual group members, so what was it in me that resisted the idea that the group as a whole needed to be more focussed on critiquing – that somehow without this, we aren’t sufficiently ‘developed’ as a group?<br /><br />When I started the group I did extensive research, I had discovered that most successful writers discourage the joining of writers groups, and so part of what I wanted was not to be like those groups. How could feedback be more helpful? What is it we really need as writers? My attempts to express this have been woolly, and have left my fellow writers thinking I’m scared of feedback or wanting us all to “play nice”.<br /><br />Then today I was talking about writing as something deeply personal rather than abstract, and I finally understood. Creative writing cannot be simply an intellectual exercise – we really do put a part of ourselves into our writing and it really is us that we’re putting ‘out there’ when we share our work. These parts of ourselves need, above all, nurturing and feeding. <br /><br />My instinctive desire to create a space where women could come together and feel nurtured and free of judgement was spot on, because I know as a counsellor we only grow if we don’t constantly hit against other’s inhibiting conditions of worth. In counselling, many believe the safe space and the good relationship are necessary and sufficient for growth, and I’m not so sure things aren’t the same for writers, which is why so many successful writers try to discourage people from joining groups; an over-zealous group can quickly inhibit a burgeoning writer. As humans we tend to fall into the idea that to control and guide people is more essential than to nurture and love them, but this probably isn’t the case.<br /><br />Recently somebody said to me ‘telling me my poem’s wonderful is useless to me’ and so it is. But telling somebody what’s really good about the way they write is probably a million times more valuable than telling them what’s wrong with it, because as we’re always being told, energy flows where attention goes, and who wants the focus of their work to be on what they do wrong? That’s not to say critical feedback doesn’t have its use or its place, but I guess for me, I’d unnecessarily come to feel the group I’d created was somehow lacking because this had not been the main focus or purpose of its meetings. Now I think differently – in a world where we’re constantly being bombarded with messages of how to be better, I finally see the immense power of a space that says we’re wonderful just as we are. In fact, that may very well be the scariest and most challenging feedback of all.<br /><br />Sapphist Writers are wonderful just as they are and I’m finally realising my original vision was a worthwhile one, and worth preserving. And with this realisation comes profound love and respect for all the Sapphist Writers, past and present, who have touched my life so deeply.Sandyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11798491704599957447noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4443084695530006335.post-64750159480064817672011-02-21T20:35:00.010+00:002011-02-21T21:14:42.268+00:00The Writing's on the WallYes, it's true - our words are framed and on display. In celebration of LGBT History Month, this week Sapphist Writers has an exhibition in Cafe Art at Duncan Macmillan House, Porchester Road, Nottingham. This is the headquarters of Nottinghamshire Healthcare NHS Trust which is flying the rainbow flag for the whole of February.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheLQXuprJwEBN42854FpJ9JB9AX1_sL2fyD6w50Tw4DD-bZTtyZEBLWaj5D-don6kfHg86R2bXUDM4TXHCP7Dbn9DpNowdbC7230oW1_wjrGsKWaAuZB0mdpkjKZwwjVhGMjUY9xiWkG8/s1600/SapphistWriters1.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5576244976376748834" border="0" alt="Our writing is hanging on the wall" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheLQXuprJwEBN42854FpJ9JB9AX1_sL2fyD6w50Tw4DD-bZTtyZEBLWaj5D-don6kfHg86R2bXUDM4TXHCP7Dbn9DpNowdbC7230oW1_wjrGsKWaAuZB0mdpkjKZwwjVhGMjUY9xiWkG8/s320/SapphistWriters1.jpg" /></a>If you are able, please come and take a look. The exhibition has a theme of "Sexual orientation and mental health" and can be viewed during office hours from Monday 21 February to Friday 25 February. If you can't make it, don't worry, as we'll be posting examples of work included in the exhibition here, as well as new writing exclusive to the blog!<br /><br /><br />Thank you to everyone who has made this possible. Please help to spread the word:<br /><br /><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM9PXfEYiny8EnfoapaWq4dcNyFTz98ruFMH7AKU_TXaiIBqyl_BQ0YYyK-E-yjDQWz1ODxDMm8yuqcCXYttRdSj6cG3gvz1VSHeuMr2vlKMVW684Ma3mTVB-kxRa6pdhXolO2PcRYMiU/s1600/SapphistWritersposter.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 226px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5576249185748066386" border="0" alt="Exhibition poster" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM9PXfEYiny8EnfoapaWq4dcNyFTz98ruFMH7AKU_TXaiIBqyl_BQ0YYyK-E-yjDQWz1ODxDMm8yuqcCXYttRdSj6cG3gvz1VSHeuMr2vlKMVW684Ma3mTVB-kxRa6pdhXolO2PcRYMiU/s320/SapphistWritersposter.jpg" /></a></p>Nicki Hastiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08688408490931426245noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4443084695530006335.post-64853514916187053512010-09-23T14:03:00.003+01:002010-09-23T14:11:13.709+01:00Where were you when...*this is from a free writing we did in a group meeting, with the above title as our lead in*<br /><br />I was in traffic. Not just traffic--people were sobbing over their steering wheels, ignoring the fact that they <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">weren't</span> moving, <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">ignoring</span> that people in other cars could see <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">their</span> red cheeks and snotty noses. The morning had started so cheerful, so quiet. Why hadn't anyone called? Why <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_4" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">didn't</span> anyone knock on the door to say, "have you heard?" No one did. And I was in <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_5" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">traffic</span> for three hours on the freeway, listening to radio announcers over and over and over again, and then screaming some more as a second plane <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_6" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">careened</span> through glass and metal, through bodies and hope.<br /><br />I sat there, unmoving, knowing he was on that plane, he and his fiance'. For three <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_7" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">hours</span>, with no cell phone and no company but other drivers lost in <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_8" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">their </span>own misery and loss. By the time I got to work, frantic, there was already a message:<br /><br />They missed the flight.<br /><br />They were stuck in traffic, running late.<br /><br />They missed the flight.<br /><br />The boss said no one could take time off because the world went on. So tears were shed over the little black and white television in the staff room, screams bounced off sterile white walls as all that metal and glass came crashing to the ground, tales of desperation, of heroism, of loss, of hope, of confusion, of need, of help, of bravery filtered through the terror laden broadcasts.<br /><br />I was stuck in traffic that day.<br /><br />vvaohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14080380614726374448noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4443084695530006335.post-25502123166779137052010-02-02T20:35:00.004+00:002011-02-21T21:01:15.054+00:00My Gay Icon<span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:85%;">Hello there everyone,</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:85%;">Here's my first tentative contribution to the blog (though I posted this to the group already)...I figure if I can't come to meetings, it doesn't mean I can't be inspired by the themes you suggest. And when I saw the idea to write about a gay icon, I just couldn't help myself. I was writing it in my head ages before I actually typed the first line...so here it is, my description of my discovery of a gay icon and personal hero. A moment that changed my life. That sounds melodramatic, but it's true! If this piece is a little rambling it's because I wrote it based on flowing feelings rather than any logical plan.</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:85%;">(my gay icon is the fabulous Joan Jett and this moment took place at the Trent FM Arena, on 11/11/07)</span><br /><br /> Bodies pressed to my sides and back, the cold dividing rail in front of me. Abrupt darkness produced a hushed, reverential silence, heavy and tense with expectation. Thunderous chords heralded the appearance of dark shadows moving onto the raised platform, vague and shrouded. Excitement erupted around me upon the first glimpse of those shades, but for what? My expectations were muted, bewildered. I did not realise that the momentary gloom masked a goddess.<br /> Sudden bright illumination revealed her, clothed in brutal black leather, hips jammed hard forward against the instrument strapped to her body. Supple, scarred hands caressed its length, strong fingers flexing. Ecstasy erupted around me, screams of enthusiasm, encouragement and undisguised lust. Bodies surged forwards, twitched and writhed close to me. Only I was still. Transfixed.<br /> For the most desperately fleeting of moments the dark, knowing eyes of the goddess connected with mine. It was impossible that she could see me, surely she was blinded by the light that shone white in her face, and yet I felt exposed and raw before her.<br /> She flexed her knees and bounced, in a way a true goddess never could. She was of this earth, a creature like me, connected by our joint humanity, a bond of womanhood that was unique between us and at the same time shared with half the crowd around me. We shared a secret, which was not yet private.<br /> The music rumbled suddenly from the instrument and filled the high-ceilinged space with rhythmic thunder. It penetrated through my skin and into the depths of my body, wrapping around my hidden soul and drawing it out. She drew in a deep breath between pink lips, which I saw in the expansion of her latex enclosed chest, and then she began to sing.<br /> Her voice was not that of a goddess. It was of the real world, of pain and struggle and heat and lust and sex and love and going beyond limits. It was liquid filth and joyful rapture, the snarl of an animal but tuneful as any man-made instrument. It was the grunt of an engine and the purr of a tigress. It was defiance and protest and insurgence condensed into words.<br /> One song merged into another. Rebellion became passion became lust became challenge became revolution became exuberance. The energy around me swelled in surges, voices rising with hers, echoing hers, moving as she commanded. I could not join the words of the virtual chants, they were unfamiliar. I was crushed between hot bodies and yet isolated and motionless, transfixed still. Sweat poured, glistening over her skin and drenching the floor below her. Still the music thundered and there were cries all around me. The heavy drum beat altered the cadence of my heart and made it beat to her unique rhythm.<br /> I was apart from everything around me. There was only her in the spotlight of my gaze. Inside me a transfiguration occurred. I had not expected or invited it, but with every chord, every snarled word, the confusion ebbed away. My uncertainty waned. Mystery evaporated and the world was suddenly clear and bright. I knew, as I stared at her, I knew.<br /> It was so short a time she was before me on the stage, before she retreated, leaving her platform for the unworthy act to follow. My cheeks burned the rest of the night, feeling her presence and her absence all at once.<br /> Later, in the chill of the night air, I was warm still. I knew, at last. I knew what it was to have an icon, a hero. And I knew what it was to know myself, my desires, and my truth.RebeccaSBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14994663159748038292noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4443084695530006335.post-61010701805749984022010-01-31T11:22:00.004+00:002010-01-31T11:29:58.532+00:00Invitation to The Fifth Annual Brigid in the Blogosphere Poetry SlamHi All, I recieved the following and thought I'd pass it on...<br /><br />=====================<br />Feel free to copy the following to your blog and spread<br />the word. Let poetry bless the blogosphere once again!<br /><br />WHAT: A Bloggers (Silent) Poetry Reading<br /><br />WHEN: Anytime February 2, 2010<br /><br />WHERE: Your blog<br /><br />WHY: To celebrate the Feast of Brigid, aka Groundhog Day<br /><br />HOW: Select a poem you like - by a favorite poet or one of your own - to<br />post February 2nd.<br /><br />RSVP: If you plan to publish, feel free to leave a comment and link on<br />this post: <a href="http://moondrummer.blogspot.com">moondrummer.blogspot.com </a><br /><br />Last year when the call went out there was more poetry in<br />cyberspace than I could keep track of. So, link to whoever you hear<br />about this from and a mighty web of poetry will be spun.<br /><br />Feel free to pass this invitation on to any and all bloggers.<br /><br />This is now an annual event, started by <a href="http://thegoldpuppy.blogspot.com/">Reya</a>.Robinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03766763767316933590noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4443084695530006335.post-88189891267440792342010-01-24T20:22:00.003+00:002011-02-21T21:00:41.359+00:00January MeetingHello fellow scribes,<br /><br />It was a heroic coterie of women who risked life and frozen limbs through Nottingham’s early wintered streets and tucked themselves snugly into Minxy’s plush apartment this month. After making sure that everyone was seated and sated with tea in teasing mugs (you should have seen them), and a barrel of baked biscuits, we proceeded to attempt to complete the now yearly task of producing relevant writings for February’s Notttingham Rainbow Heritage exhibition.<br /><br />The suggesting themes were as follows...<br /><br />1. Gay icons – inspired by the London exhibition, who were your icons?<br />2. That’s so Gay! – any piece of writing inspired by this popular denigration<br />3. Write about something that has happened to you, relating to your sexuality, that you would either love or hate to see happening in the future<br />4.Imagine yourself at age 80, looking back at the differences, good or bad, that your future world has with the current year 2010.<br /><br />The following was my 15mn freewrite... there were many other inspired pieces, and it would be great to see more added to this blog, so please post yours here soon :-)<br />---------------------<br /><br />I stared out of my window as I do every morning nowadays. I love to watch the birds swinging from the feeders. They’re so rare these days that I sometimes wait half an hour before glimpsing a single one. Once upon a time I’d find whole families of blue tits and sparrows fighting over a ball of fat. These days a bag of food lasts all winter. Anyway, there I was, dreamily soaking up the dazzling winter’s sunny snow rays, when a couple came gliding out of the church opposite, swallowed up soon into the fold of family and friends. People were throwing confetti and capturing the event on the life recorder. Their virtual relations, beamed in from abroad, were observing from their Holoslates, foot-square sheets that emanate a reconstituting light from their position on the ground.<br /><br />My thoughts were propelled back to fifty years earlier, when marriage was legal for friends of mine. It had taken fifteen years of couples using the commitment ceremonies successfully, year after year, before the government agreed to allow commitments to become marriages, and there’d been much questioning about whether this was the right thing to allow, or whether any single-sex couples even wanted marriage anymore. Then, all of a sudden it was allowed, and there were a few years of celebration before it really sank in that this was now an accepted process for all to be able to demonstrate their love, no holds barred.<br /><br />All was well until the food started running out during the big freeze, and people were looking for scapegoats.<br />------------<br />See you all next month... and don't forget, come to visit us at the exibition in February at the Broadway cinema.Robinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03766763767316933590noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4443084695530006335.post-27630159780925138962010-01-24T18:29:00.003+00:002010-01-24T19:28:35.138+00:00Haven't we all been quietSapphist Writers appear to have been in hibernation for the winter, but I assure you this is not so! We've been connecting beautifully in the real world and neglecting cyberspace. At the moment, all energy is going in to the Nottingham Rainbow Heritage Exhibition at the Broadway, starting February 23rd. More about this soon. Meanwhile, I just wanted to write my own little tribute to what has turned out to be the most magical coming-together of women.<br /><br />Ode to Sapphist Writers<br /><br />Some who show a tendency for linguistic contortions;<br />Some who give their lovelorn angst Shakespearean proportions.<br />We all get a kick with taking words and messing around,<br />Found ourselves hooked by a poem about a dressing gown.<br /><br />Some readings kept us warmer when the women’s centre froze;<br />We shared our hearts so easily, and loved the words we chose,<br />Blushed and smiled and cried and laughed and nibbled on our biscuits,<br />Talked about the secret worlds that make us feel like misfits.<br /><br />Their writing gives me goosebumps, their writing makes me pensive;<br />Sharing with such talent, then, should make me apprehensive<br />And yet I find their gentle warmth allows my pen to flow;<br />I share my thoughts, however small, in their accepting glow.<br /><br />Okay, it's not really long enough or, for that matter, poetic enough, to be called an ode but I hope it brings a feeble smile to those who read it, in which case it was half an hour well spent!Sandyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11798491704599957447noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4443084695530006335.post-62496600225578936822009-10-12T23:48:00.002+01:002011-02-21T21:03:47.197+00:00tonights meetingTonight we wrote on the theme of ‘favourites’ - music, colours or food. After a bit of a slow start where I tried (and failed) to find adequate words in praise of Hallelujah, as orgasmic as mashed potato or as lush as any shade of green, I tuned into the following words which I'm sharing with you exactly as written (scary!!). Karen x (Monday 12th Octobr 2009)<br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"><br />there are some things you want to feel, touch, say, do, hear, smell<br />and there are others that do all those things to you;<br />whether you want them to or not<br />things you feel were there at the beginning<br />things you hope will be there at the end<br />things that make you weep when you want to rage,<br />things that make you rage when you want to fall<br />that trip you up when you want to fly<br />and that shoot an arrow through your heart<br />when you soar beyond<br />letting the pain slip out of your breast<br />and float you down to earth<br />a feather at a time.<br />the lightest thing, the hardest thing, the wildest thing.<br />the heart aching yes,<br />the gut wrenching please<br />the take me with you when you go<br />and the no, the no, the no.<br />the wrapping round like a pashmina<br />the heaving up like coal sacks<br />the dragging back like trunks of forgotten pleasure<br />the sinking down, like dead weight to nowhere, returns to earth<br /></span><br /><br /><br />Thank you Renee for tonights ideas and Jimmy Cliff for the associated feelings.karen waldramhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03095919627143009099noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4443084695530006335.post-35907888650426072742009-10-08T21:15:00.003+01:002009-10-08T21:26:23.334+01:00Where did that one go?<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Aaaah</span>, it's October and I think the world is caught up in that back to school rush of busyness that can make us forget to stop and be creative, silly, playful. That's why <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Sapphist</span> Writers is here, a little gentle reminder to just write - don't save up your words for that Something Important you're going to write when you retire - write now, write free, write in fun, in play, and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">squander</span> your words wherever you will.<br /><br />I recently noticed a rather trivial piece of my writing pop up in QB and stopped for a second - was that really me, the women who edits and edits and never sends anything off, sending some casual little snippet out into the world without a thought? Yes, it is me, thanks to this writing network! Being brave enough to share even when I don't feel I've something mighty to say. Gosh, I might not even read through this post before putting it up . . .<br /><br />Next meeting, all you wonderful discovered and undiscovered <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Sapphist</span> Writers, is this coming Monday 12<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">th</span> October. Come and play!Sandyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11798491704599957447noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4443084695530006335.post-21302649351056478272009-09-10T14:38:00.003+01:002011-02-21T21:02:14.732+00:00Monday 14: Next Meeting of Sapphist WritersDon't forget to come to the Sapphist Writer's meeting this coming Monday, the 14th, at 7:15pm! We'll meet at the Nottingham Women's Centre (30 Chaucer Street) as usual. See you there!Minxyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00911014096374604716noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4443084695530006335.post-81188785239354184222009-09-05T17:34:00.003+01:002009-09-05T17:51:43.276+01:00Words to Sandy's poems<p><strong>Do not feel beyond this point</strong><br /><br />We cannot tolerate sadness here,<br />It echoes with our own.<br />You must not let us see your fear . . .<span class="fullpost"><br />It does not need to be known.<br />Your anger is unwelcome;<br />No matter if it’s justified<br />You may very well have a reason<br />But you should keep it all inside.<br />In time, you’ll learn containment;<br />You’ll not let anything show,<br />Your exterior will shine contentment<br />While your inside is hollow.<br />You’ll be corroded to the core,<br />A dump for toxic waste;<br />A brightly painted steel door<br />Protecting our distaste.<br />Your pain might be infectious<br />And being cold is the only art;<br />Our sensibilities are more precious<br />Than your beleaguered heart.</p><p><strong>Waiting for the train</strong><br /><br />We heard its whistle once again<br />And stood, still, waiting for a glimpse.<br />You and I, in limbo, in the grey,<br />Hardly expecting to be here,<br />Forgetting our mutual joy<br />Under the cloud oppressing us.<br /><br />Over the grey weeks that we walked,<br />Catching sound but never a sight,<br />We strained to glimpse our bashful train<br />And on this of all days, it came.<br />We barely had the faith to wait<br />But somehow we stood, mesmerised<br />By a far-off whistle’s promise<br />And distant chugging on the air.<br /><br />A moment before hope ran out<br />The plume of steam appeared in view,<br />A purer cloud beneath the grey,<br />Wreathing the engine’s ancient black,<br />Like signs of spring crept upon us.<br />I saw joy in your face, and yet<br />You would not take it as a signTo be patient, my love, and hope.</p><p><strong>Wallpaper<br /></strong><br />How can she not remember<br />Why she tears at me distractedly,<br />Ripping long shreds from me,<br />Without remembering<br />A father’s hands shredding into her?<br /><br />She leaves when he comes to her<br />And finds herself here, after.<br />Picking at me as if I can tell her.<br />As if to uncover a secret<br />She has buried in the plaster.</span><br /><br /><br /> </p>Sandyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11798491704599957447noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4443084695530006335.post-70063724375326009802009-09-05T12:35:00.001+01:002009-09-05T12:45:25.443+01:00WordsHello kittens! I’d like to encourage those who participated in the making of the videos to provide the written poems they created. When I viewed the videos we have thus far, I had a desire to see them written and maybe learn how they came about.<br /><br />I’ve included in this post the poem I read on video. The poem was the result of an exercise given us by Rock Chick Viv at our last monthly meeting. After drawing an unknown object from a bag, there was a task of writing something, anything within a five minute time limit. I pulled from the bag a metallic and plastic thing that confounded me. I had to ask for help with identifying what was the whistle part of a kettle! So, with whistle bit in hand and tea on my mind, I wrote the following:<br /><br />I Love My Tea<br /><br />You whistle at me<br />stealing my<br />attention.<br /><br />I stroll in casually -<br />I can't give away<br />just how much<br />I want . . .<br />what you've got.<br /><br />You go silent;<br />I slowly stir things up.<br />That special scent<br />wraps itself around me.<br /><br />I sigh-<br />and burn my lips<br />upon that<br />first,<br />delicious,<br />hot<br />taste.<br /><br />Love,<br />MinxyMinxyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00911014096374604716noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4443084695530006335.post-27798708932079951982009-09-04T19:08:00.001+01:002009-09-04T19:10:01.244+01:00More Poets in PerformanceWe promised you more videos, and here's Sandy stealing the show. I heard that's just what she did at Women in Tune over the weekend! Go Sandy!<br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/SXjfyL2Xu8o&hl=en&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/SXjfyL2Xu8o&hl=en&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object>Nicki Hastiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08688408490931426245noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4443084695530006335.post-30846194599802013812009-09-02T20:04:00.010+01:002009-09-06T18:12:05.568+01:00Women In Tune<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrRtQnZLVFz7by3OuIom4kmLMq_QgIb1ONgOxddT0R8czQe1JfKyCxhbZvpMjfybmiZvpGPaQQ59esNjUpJ2nerLbJ_Co5FAvI_oeH1hrQPV2kJ5iBA756ERgaho_cGO3FXBmuXdCzP6ut/s1600-h/2009_0902summer0031.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5378403114936317858" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 150px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrRtQnZLVFz7by3OuIom4kmLMq_QgIb1ONgOxddT0R8czQe1JfKyCxhbZvpMjfybmiZvpGPaQQ59esNjUpJ2nerLbJ_Co5FAvI_oeH1hrQPV2kJ5iBA756ERgaho_cGO3FXBmuXdCzP6ut/s200/2009_0902summer0031.JPG" border="0" /></a> I just returned from the WIT festival in beautiful Wales; my very muddy car looks slightly surreal on the urban streets, and my brain is re-adjusting to the presence of men. ‘No, Sandy, that is not a very masculine-looking dyke, it is actually a bloke,’ my partner tells me patiently.<br /><br />Exciting, moist, inspiring, emotional, intimate, tender, raucous, solemn, silly, professional, homespun, playful . . .<span class="fullpost"> – what more could I have wanted from my bank holiday? Being blown away by the talent of a multitude of musical and artistic women both renowned and obscure, and having a chance to explore ourselves and our creativity, and above all to play in a nurturing and liberating, feminist atmosphere that is there for all women, but is exceptionally Sapphist-friendly.<br /><br />There were so many poets this year, on main stage, open mic and fringe, and plenty of writing-themed workshops; I’m thinking of suggesting a spin-off “Lit WIT”. Best of all was when the wonderful Erica suggested we do some “spontaneous combustion” – find a space, improvise for the briefest of times between lunch and the afternoon workshops, and see what happens. How could we refuse? We didn’t have long, but Erica was prepared, with a pile of daily newspapers and an exercise inspired by Dadaism. We drew a grid on a random page, and using only words that were on the grid intersections, we constructed our pieces. An alternative exercise used only the letters from Women In Tune to construct the lines of a poem.<br /><br />I’m always fascinated by the way constraints push us to be more creative with how we use words – the structure of a poem drives us to reach for new ways of expressing, and in this case, the scarcity of our words pushed us to search for deeper meaning. For some reason, I found myself with the letters page of the Daily Express, and writing with a pen from the North Yorkshire Police Department. It was bound to be surreal:<br /><br />Time matters<br />These are just experiments;<br />Fizzy missions<br />And Pepsi-cola politicians<br />Feeding our suspicions.<br /><br />Bogus claimants<br />And phoney applicants;<br />Threat to our system.<br />Where’s the choice?<br />Who’s the voice?<br />Luckily, time matters<br />These are just experiments.<br /><br />Naturally, we went on to perform our pieces to the enjoyable bemusement of the WIT audience. . . So, welcome to Sapphist Writers my new-found WIT comrades and here is some of what the other group members produced:<br /><br /><strong>Jet:</strong><br /><br />All energy<br />Bats screaming<br />People play<br />Own upbringing<br />Mum gets daughter<br />Dads in massive pants<br />Crazy day<br />Amy, Sharon, Kelly<br />She ran in garden with the moss<br />Cool boy spoke most<br />And bit on football and flour?<br /><br /><strong>Meg:</strong><br /><br />The cast were pleased someone with a Welsh name dramatised the early radio hit and then started performing at the working men’s club, exactly. Very British!<br /><br />People with long holidays coincided were drummed in otherwise it might have bombed.<br /><br /><strong>Erica:<br /></strong><br />The clear emissions of<br />Seasons settle<br />Earth levels vital<br />Ideological debate in<br />Cold glowing darkness<br />In body energy balls<br /><br />Clear emissions<br />Earth levels vital<br /><br />Flawed climate power<br />(Of) fossil carbon beliefs<br />The material machine<br />Restored: carousels<br />Incandescent light<br /><br />Clear emissions<br />Earth levels vital<br /><br />Washout creationist beliefs converted groups<br /><br />Earth levels vital<br /><br />In secular darkness<br />The ideological train skids<br />The cold pearl’s glow<br />Houses creation energy<br /><br />Clear emissions<br />Earth levels vital<br /><br /><strong>Bethan:</strong><br /><br />The Escape<br /><br />Someone physically bound<br />Frustration within ourselves;<br />Cranky and repetitive work<br />Creates someone alone.<br />Confront their position,<br />The energy is in ourselves.<br /><br /><strong>Rachelle:<br /></strong><br />(An extension of the second exercise)<br /><br />All night baptism session<br /><br />Money and wine, wino mine<br />Emotions spoken after nine<br />Nouns mown to fit my line<br /><br />Green tones untie turns and toes<br />My hazy vision shrinks and grows<br />Body’s whispers turn to bellows<br /><br />Money and wine, wino mine<br />Emotions spoken after nine<br /><br />Bottles rub out tones and tunes<br />No need now for our Sapphic runes<br />Whiskey mines my dizzy croons<br /><br />Money and wine, wino mine<br />Emotions spoken after nine<br /><br /><strong>Erica/jointly authored by group:<br /></strong><br />(From the letters w.o.m.e.n.i.n.t.u.n.e.)<br /><br />Un-tune<br />To tune<br />In tune<br />In time<br /><br />WIT!<br />Wot?<br />New . . . m_ew!<br /><br />Mine<br />Nine<br />Neon time<br /><br />In time<br />In tune<br />To tune<br />Un-tune<br /><br />No men.<br /><br />Whim<br />Wine<br />Ween<br />Twin<br />Wom . . . wom . . . wom<br /><br />Un-tune<br />To tune<br />In tune<br />In time<br /><br /><br /></span>Sandyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11798491704599957447noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4443084695530006335.post-57187946523480935602009-08-30T19:28:00.002+01:002009-08-30T19:30:45.139+01:00Poets in PerformanceIt was certainly a fun night on our first attempt at performing to the group. Of course, members have been sharing their writing by reading aloud at meetings since the group began. But to actively think of ourselves as "performers" marks another step in reaching a wider audience. Thanks for the motivational tips, Pam!<br /><br />We want to involve and encourage women who are unable to make our meetings, as well as welcome a far wider readership to our work. If you know of local accessible venues holding open mics or happy to host an event - whether one-off or regular - please let us know.<br /><br />Here is just a sample of our work. More videos to follow ...<br /><br />Raise the roof, first of all, for Renee:<br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/-co2ikY__Uc&hl=en&fs=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/-co2ikY__Uc&hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br /><br />Now, note if Nicki nailed it:<br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/eW7NGXHm9R0&hl=en&fs=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/eW7NGXHm9R0&hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br /><br /><br />Thanks for watching!Nicki Hastiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08688408490931426245noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4443084695530006335.post-19284819932258847072009-08-29T18:46:00.006+01:002009-09-03T21:46:06.088+01:00Caught On Cam: Sapphist Writers Doing Their Thang!<div align="justify">A big hello to the wild women of the Sapphist Writers Group! I hope all are well and enjoying a wonderful bank holiday weekend. This past Monday we had a cracking meeting. For a change, we actually performed some of our work on camera. Thanks to the gorgeous (and oh, so shy) Pam for providing some skills training to help us be able to focus and not feel so self-conscious about performing. It was an enjoyable mini-workshop.</div><div align="justify"><br /> </div><div align="justify">Many thanks go to the delectable Nicki for operating the camera; she was a pro! We had fun watching the results of our readings before the meeting was over – we have a talented pool of writers and soon, Nicki will post here on our blog the video results of our efforts.</div><div align="justify"><br />Personally, I hope we do it again in the not too far future because it helped us exercise our ability to deliver what we write, and it was a privilege to hear the words spoken by the women who wrote them. Of course, we had a most excellent surprise when Sarah actually sang (a cappella, baby!!) lyrics she had written. We’re talking brass ovaries!!!</div><div align="justify"><br /> </div><div align="justify">There was thought provoking, deeply emotional work as well as some silly stuff to round out the evening. Thank you kindly to all who participated; it was an inspiring meeting.</div><br /><div align="justify">I wanted to share a little heads up for you this weekend. Take a peek at the Saturday Review of the Times, you’ll find a bit of a treat. Jeanette Winterson (Oranges are Not The Only Fruit, Sexing the Cherry, etc.-meow!) has interviewed Carol Ann Duffy, Britain’s poet laureate. What a treat for the holiday!!<br /></div><div align="justify">Have a safe weekend everyone; I hope you enjoy the company of others, have some good food, great sex, and maybe get to sleep late. Bliss.</div><div align="justify"><br /> </div><div align="justify">Love,<br />Minxy</div>Minxyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00911014096374604716noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4443084695530006335.post-79941984572840122062009-07-30T20:59:00.002+01:002009-07-30T21:23:48.872+01:00A Fagment of Lesbian WisdomWhen a dusty tome recently fell into my hands (I can’t tell you my source because then I’d have to kill you and I just did my nails), I was amazed to have found what seems to be the beginnings of an encyclopaedic work by a lesbian writer. The following was written by hand in an ornate, leather journal covered with dust and mould (eww). Try as I might, I cannot find a name for the woman who was writing this book. I believe this may be a significant literary find. It is but a fragment, which is a shame, but whoever the author was, she is not forgotten; she lives on. I am but a humble servant offering to my sisters the wisdom set forth by her.<br /><br />Behold: The enDyklopaedia<br /><br />Darwinian dyke: A dyke who is dangerously close to her primate ancestors. This form of dyke is often observed to scowl, grunt, burp, fart and scratch her crotch; to be avoided by all but the most dedicated animal lovers.<br /><br />Dastardly dyke: A dyke who is mean-spirited; to be avoided.<br /><br />Deadpan dyke: A dyke who is without a variety of facial expressions, the most likely expression being a lost, heavily glazed.<br /><br />Decadent dyke: A dyke who wants it all; a high maintenance dyke; to be avoided.<br /><br />Decaffeinated dyke: A dyke who has not ingested the requisite amount of caffeine to render her human; this is a highly dangerous form of dyke and must be administered coffee with all haste.<br /><br />Decent dyke: The beloved form of dyke one wishes to present to mama and papa.<br /><br />Decisive dyke: A dyke who knows what she wants. Meow!<br /><br />Decontaminated dyke: A dyke who has sought medical help and is now rid of that nasty bug; proceed with caution.<br /><br />Depleted dyke: A dyke who lacks funds.<br /><br />Depreciated dyke: A dyke who is on the way out.<br /><br />Deputy dyke: A dyke in the employ of law enforcement.<br /><br />Dextrous dyke: A most excellent friend to have in times of need.<br /><br />Diabolical dyke: A dyke who upon break-up sews day old prawns into your curtain hems and seeds your carpet with something fast-growing; to be avoided.<br /><br />Dialectical dyke: A dyke who likes to argue for the sake of argument.<br /><br />Diaphanous dyke: A dyke who is easily seen through.<br /><br />Diligent dyke: A dyke who works hard at all she does; likely to be a pleasing lover.<br /><br />Dinky dyke: A dyke of less than five feet in height.<br /><br />Dire dyke: One’s nightmare dyke.<br /><br />Disco dyke: A dyke who finds enjoyment in dancing, whether or not their talent is appreciated by others.<br /><br />Discourteous dyke: A dyke who is rude.<br /><br />Disengaged dyke: A dyke who is no longer engaged; an available dyke.<br /><br />Dishevelled dyke: A dyke who has not made acquaintance with grooming tools, clean clothing, or soap.<br /><br />Disobedient dyke: A dyke who requires a wider collar and more diligent correction.<br /><br />Diversified dyke: A dyke who has a girl in every port.<br /><br />Dizzy dyke: A dyke who is most often of the blonde persuasion.<br /><br />Dodgy dyke: A dyke who uses one’s toothbrush without first obtaining permission.<br /><br />Domestic dyke: A highly sought after dyke who possesses the skills and knowledge necessary for housekeeping.<br /><br />Dramatic dyke: A dyke who thrives upon living from one crisis to another.<br /><br />Dream dyke: The elusive dyke of one’s dreams.<br /><br />Dry rot dyke: A dyke who suffers a lack of orgasmic activity.<br /><br />Duplicate dyke: A dyke who has a twin.<br /><br />Dusty dyke: An aging dyke.<br /><br />Dysfunctional dyke: A dyke who is not right in the head.<br /><br />Dysmorphic dyke: A dyke who thinks she’s hot, but clearly is not.<br /><br />After the last entry, nothing more is written. We can only imagine the wisdom meant to fill the rest of the pages. Thank you for allowing me to share this important part of our literary history with you.<br /><br />Your servant,<br />MinxyMinxyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00911014096374604716noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4443084695530006335.post-9919841598204840452009-07-25T23:51:00.000+01:002009-07-25T23:54:44.921+01:00deja vu?<span style="font-family:arial;">My words from the Jackie Kay quick write exercise were... </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"><div align="center"><br /><em>branches, wind, storm, field, warning, leaves, secret, mother, cherries, </em></div><div align="center"><em>fall, help, scattered, levitated, gale, rooted, flew, picture, landed</em></span></div><span style="font-family:arial;"><br />The result reads like a kids story, and can you guess which famous movie I took inspiration from? </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"><br />-------------------------------------</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"><br />I was scanning the orchard from my bedroom window. I'd heard the wind throwing leaves against the panes, jumped as branches creaked and twigs snapped outside in the yard. The weather was closing in and the once stagnant air was now pushing and pulling its way through the cracks in the window frames and under the badly finished doors. </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"><br />I could see the storm heading this way across the barley field. To the left was the orchard where mother had gone to pick cherries for a secret birthday cake we would bake later for father. A siren was raised in the distance, a gale warning. I saw mother fall from her ladder. I hoped she'd landed softly but my fear took hold and I imagined her lying there with a broken leg. </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"><br />Suddenly the most amazing thing happened. As I called for help (not that it would have been much use, as the nearest neighbour lived miles away), I saw an incredible picture; my mother was uprooted by a small tornado. She was levitated, along with the cherries which were scattered all around her; she flew a hundred yards or so and landed, splat, on a great big piled high compost heap. </span>Robinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03766763767316933590noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4443084695530006335.post-78091643117253715932009-07-19T21:38:00.002+01:002009-07-19T21:49:22.879+01:00Accidental MeaningsI found Nicki's Jackie Kay exercise powerful, and was surprised how what started out almost as a nonsense poem began to touch on some deep stuff, as if something was freed by the necessity to experiment. Try it, it may take you to unexpected places!<br /><br />Here, completely unedited, is what I came up with:<br /><br />My words: feel fine mercy forgiveness silence whipped light hearts field song seven missed cherries stone feet lifting help geese flying buffeted rooted anthem dove soft<br /><br /><strong>help</strong><br /><br />i feel fine<br />fine as goosefeathers<br />fine as crystal<br />singing, ringing<br /><br />i feel light<br />light as whipped cream<br />weighed down with cherries<br />laden with their stone hearts<br /><br />i feel missed<br />my soft feet unrooted<br />buffeted by<br />their lack of mercy<br /><br />i feel seven<br />flying above my body<br />a dove lifting me<br />above the field of silence<br /><br />i feel my song<br />dissolving<br />into a broken anthem<br />reaching for words like forgivenessSandyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11798491704599957447noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4443084695530006335.post-83110926031635579392009-07-17T08:58:00.002+01:002009-07-17T09:17:58.481+01:00As requested...Here is the poem I wrote at last Monday's meeting... with a few amendments!<br /><br />The words I selected from Jacqui Kay's work were:<br />trees, feets, mercy, bend, witness, field, song, others, bass, she, stone, feet, door, floor, wind, small, hour, roted, time, leave, dead, down, branches.<br /><br />And this is what I did with them...<br /><br /><span style="color:#663300;">The wind winds around the trees,</span><br /><span style="color:#663300;">branches bend down,</span><br /><span style="color:#663300;">leaves fall, dead.</span><br /><span style="color:#663300;"></span><br /><span style="color:#663300;">A small sapling pushes through</span><br /><span style="color:#663300;">the litter, caught in time,</span><br /><span style="color:#663300;">yielding to the hour.</span><br /><span style="color:#663300;"></span><br /><span style="color:#663300;">She feels the song that others knew,</span><br /><span style="color:#663300;">witnessing the bass notes</span><br /><span style="color:#663300;">of wood and stone.</span><br /><span style="color:#663300;"></span><br /><span style="color:#663300;">Now rooted in this place,</span><br /><span style="color:#663300;">seeking the door to mercy</span><br /><span style="color:#663300;">and more perhaps beyond,</span><br /><span style="color:#663300;"></span><br /><span style="color:#663300;">feet welded to this field's</span><br /><span style="color:#663300;">floor, always fixed</span><br /><span style="color:#663300;">in time's relentless hold.</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4443084695530006335.post-11688577676889366742009-07-15T22:38:00.003+01:002009-07-15T23:02:40.762+01:00Take three poems, choose your words and ...Jackie Kay inspired many of us recently when we had the pleasure of hearing her read (<em>perform</em> would be more accurate) as part of the <a href="http://www.lowdhambookfestival.co.uk/">Lowdham Book Festival</a> last month. She is a star! So it seemed appropriate to select Jackie Kay's poetry collection <em>Darling</em> to spark our writing exercise at this month's meeting.<br /><br />Three poems were chosen at random from the collection by asking group members to suggest a page number. Everyone noted down between six and 10 words from each poem as the poems were read aloud to the group. Members then had 15 minutes to write in any format as long as they used all their chosen words. I've participated in this exercise on a number of occasions now and always been surprised and excited by the results. Not just in how it frees my own imagination, and creates interesting new associations between words. What's great is hearing everyone else's contributions. Did we choose similar words or different ones? And what did we make with them?<br /><br />This is what I came up with. It may be the beginning of a short story, and I aim to work more with the persona/character that 'appeared' on the page. I'm encouraging other members to post their writing from this exercise here. Come on - you know you want to!<br /><br /><b>Words selected:</b>:<br />trees, whipped, cotton, scream, bass, landing, happen, telling, keep, missed, trousers, toffee, skin, bones, revolutionary, gulls, waving, learned, returned, soft, down.<br /><br /><br />There's nothing revolutionary in my trousers.<br />It's just the way I like telling it in a full<br />bass voice: "See what I can make happen".<br />And I did. All those years ago, when I was<br />skin and bones and I couldn't do a press-up<br />for toffee, you thought me soft;<br />tried to keep me down. While the gulls<br />would scream, preparing for landing<br />on yet another bag of chips, I was patching<br />myself with cotton. There's a turn-up<br />in these jeans. I learned what I missed<br />under that pier, rolling off you as the wind<br />whipped my backside raw. The crack of<br />the boards was trees splitting. The only joy<br />in waving you off imagining what returned.<br /><br /></br>Nicki Hastiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08688408490931426245noreply@blogger.com3