I Love West Leeds Arts Festival | Young Writers | Maisie Barker
Maisie Barker is a 17 year old writer based in Manchester. Her favourite books are 'Naked Lunch' by William S. Burroughs, 'Elective Affinities' by Goethe and 'It's Okay, I'm Wearing Really Big Knickers' by Louise Rennison. Currently she's reading 'You're An Animal, Viskovitz!' by Alessandro Boffa and is loving the story about the amoeba. She is looking forward to being one of the I Love West Leeds Festival Writers in Residence because it will be a great opportunity to develop her writing and showcase it in a more public light.
By Maisie Barker.
Inspired by the image of the woman in the red gloves, part of Casey Orr's Comings and Goings Exhibition, The Millspace, Armley Mills, Canal Road, Armley, Leeds.
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An Old Man Remembers...
The old man sits on an empty bus chair
smart trousers with creases down the middle,
white shirt and tie.
Stares straight ahead with bright blue unblinking eyes
seeing something no-one else can.
His little dog barks excitedly
and runs from leg to leg
window to seat.
Whines for scraps from a Greggs bag.
Looks up at his master
before jumping
and lick, lick, licking his face!
The man, [in a brief moment of sentiment], hugs the yelping thing to his chest.
At home the old man sits
a feint scent of lilacs and talcum powder
still familiar.
Soft flannel pants with perfect seams,
matching nightshirt and slippers.
Stares straight ahead at Antique Roadshow repeats
The little dog lies silent
curled up on his slippered feet.
Occasionally whining at rabbits
The man rises to bed
the dog following
to curl up
on a single bed.
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Week 2 - Well we're well and truly into the swing of things now, I'm going back to Leeds this week for my observation and eavesdropping so hopefully I'll get some inspiring stories from that and get some good poems from that. Last week we did the interviews for the website, a nerve-wracking experience if ever there was one. I don't know what it is about people or microphones that makes me nervous but it's not easy to talk about yourself knowing it's being recorded. Still, best to get the experience now when I can find comfort in the fact other people are doing the same thing.
I've been reading a lot this week for inspiration, Rommi gave us a poem called 'Always' by Brian Bartlett and our homework is to do a West Leeds take on it. If you've never read it I would recommend you do, it's a beautiful poem and the imagery is incredible, especially the last line. I've also been reading some of Alice Oswald's work, again recommended by Rommi. Alice Oswald is a true poet, managing to create images in a unique way. Finally, I've been re-reading 'Haunted' by Chuck Palanhniuk - a very strange book. I like the way his poems are more like prose and manage to tell a story, I think I take a lot of that and use it in my own stuff.
I'll be doing two pieces this week, so look out for those, I'll also be attending this Sunday's showing of 'Let The Right One In' as part of the Festival, so maybe see you there!
Maisie
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Retirement
Legs are thin
and stringy with tendons like knots in knitting threads.
Tiny, blue snake veined feet flatten the backs of bedroom slippers
that slap, slap, slap down the aisle.
Claw hands cling to the rail
her frail, twisted tree body holding on.
Everyone looks away
out the window,
at each other,
at anything else.
No-one looks at her Ruby Red nails
spotted with blood and bitten down
to delicate, cuticle skin.
No-one stares at lank, greasy hair
unwashed and untouched.
She walks by and smells of dust
and cat pee.
The kind of smell that grandkids hate
and why they make excuses not to visit;
hang up a second too soon
and whisper cruel words behind not-quite-closed doors.
The Home will want her back by five
for fat nurses to talk down to her.
This old lady does not knit
or plant petunias on sunny days.
She waits in unheated rooms
for organised bingo,
and gets ushered along.
If she looked any better, or were any younger, would we pity her less?
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Week 3
Now more than halfway through the Festival, I'm gradually getting more organised and am glad to say I've got an outline of what I want to do for the rest of the residency. It's all coming together really well. Another day of the number 16 has given me some more ideas of what to do in my next few poems. It's really interesting to see how everyone's progressing and some of the ideas I can't wait to see become a reality.
The number 16 has also been a haven of inspiration, you see such an odd collection of people - old, young, mothers, children, people going to the prison or church and just listening to little snippets of conversation means you can get maybe a few lines of a poem. I got a beautiful quote from a little girl the other day that I'm going to include in my last poem.
Tonight, I went to see ' Låt den rätte komma in' ('Let The Right One In') at Armley Mills cinema, it's a beautiful film and a very different take on vampire films. You should see it; it's dark and bloody but also strangely innocent and natural at the same time.
We've been doing a lot of exercises in our workshops to get our ideas flowing and try out some different ways of writing poetry. We took the poem 'Always' by Brian Bartlett and re-wrote it in terms of West Leeds. We've been doing similar things with list poems, object poems and internal monologue poems (especially Carol Ann Duffy's monologue poems) mostly centred around the mills. I'd recommend this to people who want to find new ways of experimenting with words.
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Baby Face
By Maisie Barker
Young mothers of 16, 17, [barely older]
lug cumbersome tug-boat prams and juggle
children on the buses.
Young faces, make up free:
Alpine-child-pink cheeks and dark circles
from sleepless nights.
"The kids were bangin' on the bedroom door at 7:15"
crying for Coco Pops and milk -
begging mummy to open the door.
Black roots shock-bleached-straw-hair
almost checkerboard shades of light and dark;
a measure as to how old her children are.
Young girls pacify even younger babies
with juice and sweets,
hands sticky with sugar and drool.
Chapped lips,
[dry and parched as wind buffed cliffs],
shush rowdy toddlers
who frolic just outside of mother's reach.
They climb on board
outside high rise flats
and alight at nurseries, job centres,
the park.
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Canal Dogs
By Maisie Barker
These wolves board the bus in packs
coats of grey and blue and black
cropped fur clipped close to the scalp
or slicked back with greasy gel,
a spiky mane rising at the front.
Alpha males, heckles raised
and everyone stiffens, ears pricked
for signs of a fight.
They point out tags
'FREE RAWKY' and they nod,
laugh and hawk up spit.
Down past the churchyard one stops...
and crosses himself
almost invisibly.
These boys,
like rival dog packs,
snarl and shout,
but, like coyotes, fake
and back down,
eventually.
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Object Poems
Spine Poem: to make the word FUNNELS
Fuel
continUously
churNed
iNto
clEar
Lake
skieS
List Poem [after Alistair Reid]
Snuggly Words - to think of when you knit
vibrant
burgundy
whisper
fluff
spun
puff
air
indigo
fibres
down