Workshops - hightide poets

Workshops and Selected Writing


Lydia Fulleylove: Workshops				Lydia's approach is to encourage writers to: Play with words Write to surprise themselves Write from the heart Develop the craft of writing Re-draft, edit and revise and many of her workshops begin with the senses and the power of observation. These one day writing workshops are often based in the inspirational setting of Northcourt Manor in Shorwell on the Isle of Wight, working indoors and outside in the beautiful gardens as appropriate. Workshops include: Starting to write A Short Story in a day Combined arts weekends Writing and walking Writing and yoga Writing workshops for teachers and pupils Contact Lydia Fulleylove on IW 740980

Lydia Fulleylove: Selected Writing
	THE GIRL IN THE APPLEHOUSE The last time: the autumn night. She finds her way by feel. The lipped latch, the double click, the let out wedge of dark. The bumps of beaten earth, the jut of cart against her thigh. The ladder close against her face, the shuffled dust, dangled space. The dark, the gapped floor, the racks she knows are there. The musty draught, the faded names she knows by heart. The second time: mid afternoon. She's learned the latch trick. The flute of light let in, the rust on sickles, hooks, hoes, lozenge tins. The worn wood shafts, the silted prints, the stairs. The tiers of apple racks, the cracked pane, the sparked mesh. The scratch of twigs, the wind looks in. The faded labels' chant, the ghosts of names. The first time: the edge of dusk. She lifts the latch. The green door sticks, she twists, she's in. The slump of shadowed shapes. The pull of tangled string, the slant of steps she has to climb. The sweep of palms on empty racks, the finger trace of swell. The brush of names she doesn't know, the cider thrill of apple skins. The flecks of orchard sun. She breathes their absence in. Lydia Fulleylove
				EVEN WHEN Even when I am not in the sea I am sensing it. The sea is in me. I am thinking of it when I am writing, when the dry wind rattles the stubble, when my skin burns and the leaves of the chestnut tree shrivel at the end of summer, even if it is hours or years since it has held me, I am thinking of the sea. Lydia Fulleylove
		STRANGE FLOWERS Unlock, clank shut, lock, check: what once was tense and fumbling now is turning, twisting through my sleeping- walk across the compound. Each time is different and the same; some days light filters through the double mesh of fences like a gift and always I look up and once I see ducks take off rise skim razor wire and sometimes there are men in prison green who tend the splash of pansies, dig loved earth, who pause and grin; the barbed coils glitter and searchlights, like strange tall snowdrops, flash the sun. I pass the aviary, the burst of brilliant wings, the prisoner sweeping as if he swept all night and then the inner prison's double skin: unlock, clank shut. Again. Again; before the corridor's blank stare, the bars on Delta Wing. Good morning miss. Good morning Billy. Now walking-waking, I'm opening the classroom on the right, the only one with windows looking out and where today- tonight, it might be that I catch that glimpse we've all had once: ducks take off rise skim razor wire Lydia Fulleylove

Updated Jan 2008 by Simon McAlister