Yesterday, I took part in a Poetry Workshop led by Beth Soule of the Suffolk Poetry Society
It was held in the Bank Arts Centre, Eye, which really used to be a bank. I loved the solid mahogany, looking prosperous and dependable, hung with colourful pictures and full of new life. The food we had was delicious, and the company stimulating as ever. There is something very special about writing companionably with others, supporting each other. It was good to be reminded of that!
The theme of the day was “They toil not” – spinning and weaving – and Beth gave us such a rich feast of material that, as we read our work to each other, we saw what ideas had been stimulated and encouraged.
My mind was turning over a poem by Walt Whitman as I came to write this:
Growing in a hidden place,
until the day those long, many jointed
legs begin to flex, and stretch,
and take you out
into the autumn light,
where gnats wail,
and flies buzz slowly
Until, balancing on the end
of the brown buttons of hollyhocks
you throw out your lines.
Where will they land?
You throw again across cool air,
beyond sight of your many eyes,
throw again until something
catches, some connection
holds fast, at last,
and you go into your unknown
along a trail
you have already laid for
yourself to follow,
familiar under your delicate feet.
It’s not the first time spiders have caught my attention.
Another poem from the workshop can be found here
I went to the workshop with my friend Tracy Watson-Brown, and her poem is here: Spider