The older I get the more
the details move me.
Fresh golden sheafs
in the tall grass.
Greylag geese lifting
into flight. Tiny bits
of white shells in moist
sand. The brown and
cream stripes of horsetail.
The small orange berries
of sea buck thorn.
As I note these details
my body quivers with
recognition and joy.
she opens the kitchen door
after the rain,
the garden is fresh
the air is sweet and clean.
she smells the soil,
the berries are bright.
As the dead leaves are blown away
to leave a clear white sky.
she adjusts her energy
and wants to grow
Inclusion in the Hadrian’s Wall 1900 Festival is open to anyone who wishes to celebrate the 1900 years of the building of Hadrian’s Wall anniversary. There is an official form that needs to be completed and then you get the official seal of approval to begin. Then the event or activity is included on the festival‘s website.
This is what I wrote in my application, really not knowing what I was going to write when I came to the page:
Activity Description (long version): “The Creative Way is a process of gathering the bones and then breathing life into them”.
Taken from the text, Creatrix: she who makes by Lucy H Pearce, The Creatrix in Residence of Hadrian’s Wall aims to explore two vital components within this project.
The first is to be like a Palaeontologist, digging down into the different social, cultural, political and physical strata of Hadrian’s Wall to unearth the hidden bones of stories yet to be told a round creative women and people of colour. The second it to getting down to the bones of the creative process itself; documenting the magic that happens when an individual decides to accept the invitation to embark on the journey of creativity, into the labyrinth of the bodymind.
“For women poetry is not a luxury. It is a vital necessity of our existence. […] Poetry is the way we help give name to the nameless so it can be thought. The farthest external horizons of our hopes and fears are cobbled by our poems, carved from the rock experiences of our daily lives.” Audre Lorde, Sister Outsider
Running parallel will be a shifting through the bones; the bones of lives from the past, lived lived along Hadrian’s Wall along with the bones of creativity so a more solid and understandable shape will emerge around the process of owning the power to create and transform.
From April, for a year, the Creatrix in Residence of Hadrian’s Wall will claim space and time at different places, sites and events for a minimum of two Wednesdays per month. In addition to these visitations, public walks, workshops and creative events will take place to share stories, practice and the Creative Way.
Activity Description (short version): Creatrix in Residence of Hadrian’s Wall is a experimental, experiential creative project exploring the strata of life, shifting through the bones in connection to the Wall as well as The Creative Way itself.
Seen from afar,
white dressed trees
Up close, delicate white
blossom with yellowpink centres
Earthy vanilla scents
the air, Spring is sprung
Receding into the distance,
a silvery slenderness,
turning purple, then black in the dimming light.
I walk to this lady of the woods
who stands alone upon this moor.
She still claims the light,
as light is everything to her.
Her crimson catkins separate
like wings, to flutter
into the breeze,
a swarm of speckled flies.
Undressing her tissue skin
again and again, she endures
revealing her white graceful
beauty
as the day comes to a close,
and the house settles in for the night,
the clock ticks-clicks into the thickening
silence, a breathing silence, you claim as your own.
You’re reminded of late night conversations
with your mum about everything and nothing.
How sitting across from her, you longed to be as kind and giving as she but not as lonely.
You’ve witnessed how she never had a chance once everything
shifted and drifted off course after
her one and only love died. You witnessed their love
desiring that kind of love for yourself and grabbing at any given at times in desperation.
Now you realise, their love was conjured up in a child’s mind to be all
and festered in a woman’s heart to be nothing.
between their toes seaweed mushes
it comes out of nowhere
squeals and screams
wet, cold skin meets cold, wet skin,
pods pop, bones crack, the sea rolls in
Too often we refuse to gaze
on something unpleasant to see.
Rubs against us all the wrong ways.
I don’t like to see an oak tree,
feel my neck snap. And my heart breaks
when there ‘s something unpleasant to see.
My words, a soundtrack for those taken;
blackmen whipped, flesh-eating scars, pain,
felt my neck snap and my heart broken.
Dead eyes and flashbulb smiles at the slain.
Who wants to look at these photographs?
Black guys, whipped, flesh-eating scars, pain.
Who has to deal with the aftermath
of bodies reshaped by tragedy?
Who wants to look at these photographs?
Callous grins surround,
too often we refuse to look.
Their bodies reshaped by tragedy
rubs us up the wrong way.
Living Wild Studios 