That’s it then. The week on the Arvon course, at Lumb Bank, the one time home of Ted Hughes, is over. Not one photograph of Sylvia Plath was to be seen. I suggested, whimsically, to my new friend, and fellow writer Henry Normal, that Mr Hughes may have put that stipulation in his will. As the week wore on the whimsy turned to a downright darker mystery.
Lots of people to mention, but without the attendees lists, and by not subscribing to the group photograph, that detail will have to follow. They know who they are, or at least some of them do.
A slight detour on the way back home from Heptonstall, to pick up the second desk from the Futon Company, Sheffield. It is for the writing desks project, which is taking over our home. This all thanks to that spiritual poet David Whyte, who once was from Yorkshire, and who very much presents himself as I would care to be presented. I believe that it was he who said that he can’t really continue writing at the same desk once he has completed a collection at that desk. Thank you David.
The sun is back with us, glorious blue skies at the brand new North Sea Observatory, where we observed (and joined) the decent length queue for coffee and cake. Edwina would have liked the cake selection, and I would like to think that this place could be on her list of future poems. Poems which she writes, about places, to encourage us stay at home Brits to visit. The noblest cause of the week for poetry in my mind.
The exhibition at Chapel Point was first rate. Big thanks to all the artists who joined in. And big call out for Biff Vernon for curating the exhibition. Who Knows, maybe we can persuade him to do one for poetry. The poem was from the Friday night Reading. Page eighteen now has the original writer’s autograph.
I found the book
Tea stained cover
Pages browned with age
Sadly it brought purpose
To an otherwise purposeless morning
In bed until eleven
Not much more to it than that
I also came across the biscuits
Chocolate digestives no less
I don’t recall that you had a favourite
You not being a sweet-tooth, unlike me
His poem, you know the teacher’s poem
There on page eighteen, his poem
Which says so much about you
Although with words which I never could have raised