Saturday Scribbles

February. The second week in and Valentine’s Day draws near. Who wouldn’t want to write something about love? Creative writing at the Bike Shed on Grant Street happens on the second Saturday of the month. A core of very faithful writers are always there and there is always a visitor or two.

We began with a toughie – working our way through our senses and what would love be if…

If love was a colour, what would it be?

The yellow of sunrise each day greeting me.

If love was a sound, what would I hear?

A purring cat that’s cradling near.

If love was a fragrance, what would I smell?

An Indian curry as hot as hell.

If love was a taste, what food would I eat?

Chips piping hot with a wall for a seat

If love was a texture, what would I touch?

A freshly made bed is never too much.

There were no rhymes in what was written that morning, but they marched across the screen as I began typing. Who was I to tell them to go away? There was also a paragraph to write inspired by one of the senses:-

I’m waiting for spring, for a morning when the sun gets up before I do and peers through the curtains.

‘The day has begun,’ it says. ‘Come out to play.’

I count myself too old, perhaps, to play and yet if I did, I might discover that I’m not too old at all.

This phrase ‘I’m too old’ seems to reverberate through my head far too often. One of the prompts for a university task was to identify a time or an event when we felt ‘grown up’. I wanted to reply that I haven’t grown up. But I think there isn’t one moment where before that point we were a child and after that point we were an adult. Growing up is a series of events and there is a sense in which we never stop growing up. Perhaps it’s when we do that we begin the dying journey.

Writing love poems is not an easy thing to do for a lot of people so I extended the object of love to anything – people, pets, food, hobbies, particularly memorable songs and things we like to wear. I am not someone that wears my pjs except for bed. That ‘Happy’ song? Who can not bob the head to ‘Clap along if you feel like a room without a roof’? Writing an ode to something we loved was the next task.

All through the house, your fragrance pervades

Come, bacon, now – my senses invade

Crisping and curling – know I love thee

Salty and sultry – I’m yours, come claim me

There was a request from two friends. They go to a church that hands out bacon butties to worshippers if they are early enough to church meetings. It could be a once-a-month event. They thought my ode to bacon would fit right in somewhere.

Someone else wrote a poem about running. It was something she used to do, but with the bad weather of rain and wind, hadn’t done for a while. She had always wanted to write a ‘running’ poem and was really pleased to have the opportunity.

The Saturday was also the beginning of the Chinese New Year. It is the year of the dragon, so the final task of the morning was to write about a dragon. The university unit I am completing is about writing what you know. A friend commented that if writers wrote only what they knew there would be no science fiction books or fantasy novels. No one knows dragons, do they? Not big ones that spew fire. Where personal knowledge comes to a brick wall, imagination steps in. But there are little dragons in nature, so there is always a starting point somewhere.

The egg was on display In the museum. No one believed it was an egg, not a real one. More likely it was a stone, egg shaped, fashioned by weather conditions or my natural forces underground. It could have been any shape.

  It came as a surprise then to Lucy one morning, after opening the door for visitors, that a glance over at the display of rocks revealed the egg was missing. Jagged bits of stone, egg fragments were scattered on the floor of the display cabinet.

  It appeared the egg, that no one had thought was an egg, had hatched. There are some things so familiar that they eye slides over without seeing. But an absence of something and the presence of something else are noticed.

  But what had hatched? A dragon, small and green, nestled among the fragments.

  Oh, Lucy saw the joke. It was a small, crocheted dragon with sparkling gem eyes. Where the fragments had come from, she could only guess.

  ‘Gotcha!’ said the night watchman. He had the real egg-shaped stone under his arm.

  Suddenly he looked down at the stone he was holding and his brows furrowed. A crack appeared on the surface. A small red claw broke through.

It was a busy morning’s writing. A woman who had been minding the café and making coffee had listened to all the poems and stories. She said she had really enjoyed what everyone had written. What a wonderful way to spend a Saturday morning.

It was also encouraging that two of the regulars asked if they could run the workshop next month. They had ideas pinging about their heads. I must be doing something right if people are wanting to stretch their writing muscles and take on leadership roles. Teaching to teach, yes?