Adelaide Road

Workshop 4: Swiss Cottage Workshop

On Saturday, February 12, I ran a workshop at Swiss Cottage library with the Camden Poetry Group getting them to write poems around the idea of roads and journeys. This is a group of local poets who've been holding regular meetings for the last forty years.

Exile

Love as a yes to the world
is difficult when I am
besieged by fingers and thighs
and strong strangling arms.

I am bedraggled by the touch
of desire without invite
and I can choose to stay here
in full body armour,

hard-eyed, light guttering,
here where pleasures are
but at a price, or I can
unpack my boots and go,

with a map and a plan
and a bag of good books
to where hills and sky and
sea collide unseen,

go to where snow falls
untouched but for where
my feet tread.
And yet, to stand alone

under endless steely sky –
what use inner light then
if there is no one,
no one for miles, to see?

By Rachel Buchanan

The Long Straight Road

On the top of an ancient horse drawn fly,
I fly, seem to levitate, float above
the commonplace, glancing through windows to
the ordinary, gaudy and the grand.

Carrying a flask of lubricating joy
I fill my needs; a touch of spice, a scarf
of gossamer to hide my stranger-ness,
a hover mat to let the humps, the lumps
the bumps be unfelt by my aging bones.

This road is straight, long, not easy, I urge
To curve; when cast out, a Nash terrace brought
me tears; a bus swerve let me know London
was both nemesis and sweetest destiny.

So I follow my ancient Speed; parchment
Map drawn in fine pen, colours bleached which once
Vibrated from monk brewed, faith steeped inks.

It is autumn, low sun blinds the mundane
From my eyes. Russet colours, crumbly leaves
And the smell of trodden windfalls, cider
And spice rising from the wayside grass.
The blustering wind turns and become a
Hurricane, shouting its force into trees
Which creak and wail in anguished reply.
Then out of the urban wild, comes Sybil,
Animatedly continuing a
Conversation begun in nineteen seventy.

Journeys often seem to take me towards
the setting sun. I carry my babies'
clothes against my skin, inhale their love;
Holding a capsule of forgetfulness
To erase the child I was, another,
An awakener to enhance the child
I have become – too late.

Here in the city, night falls, a slither
of salmon against navy blue, changing
hue as each second passes, until it
fades to deepest velvet indigo.

At peaceful destination a Holy
Place, scent of aged port; sacramental
Drops of wine, portent of divine peace.

At long last, sleep and taste of hot lemons
Souring in the mouth breath soft spiced; and wrapped
Around, the smell of clean wet hair.

Asleep I am alive to hope, still, but
Still journeying; my straight road was a
perfect circle. I am returned to the
one I used to be – or maybe the me
I want to see, an oxymoron of
A life with this eternal voyaging.

By Judeth Miller

The Road

The Road was long, winding and lonely
But my dream-wrapped map
Comforted me.
Taking only water and dog
I hoped for hospitality in Ireland's
pleasant and friendly land.
Heading for Sligo, place of the great poet
I walked towards the last of winter.
Seeing early snowdrops nod their heads
In the arctic cold suddenly snow fell
Engulfing me in a mapless world.
Then Highlighted on my path was a young fox
His footsteps deep in snow -
At peace in his gaze - nothing worried me
I was a traveller of time and space
Between the two I had found grace.
Snow ceasing in a forest of trees
I breathed into their smell of earth and fir

And the sky, like ink, heralded night.
In the hush of a shepherd's cottage
I slept tasting the echoes of my dreams.
The beauty of morning light on my way
Made my heart ache for time's decay.
But I was a traveller with tales to tell
Having touched upon the world's crown
And the world's hell.

by ps drayson

Journey

I stumble across the road,
The bridge from Waterloo
to the National.

If only I were a bicycle owner,
with great mobility!

I pause, take refuge
in my folding seat,
sip water,
open my prayer book.

I am on a quest
for spiritual peace,
finding beauty in nature.

A spring day in Autumn,
I picture Mother Teresa
In the 3rd World.

Blinding, heavy rain
washes me
into the smell of lavender,
golden brown darkness.

Am I asleep,
tasting Death?
or a poet,
looking for fulfilment?

By Hannah Kelly

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