In Focus
Access to Art - Carlton Day Centre, Carlisle
A visual arts residency project took place with high to medium dependency service users at the Carlton Centre in
The residency created a piece of artwork, a large interactive textile wall hanging (using texture and colour), that was experienced and explored by service users.
When participants saw their creations ‘on screen’ there were shouts of “wow, scary, beautiful” and lots of laughter. They laughed so much when the shadow puppets were jiggled around behind the canvas and even more when silly voices were given to each ‘under the sea’ character.
Spastic Fantastic & Unshakeable Comedy Night News & Star Feature
Comedy Night Review (The Cumberland News)
Tullie House Garden
Children were playing,
families talked;
cloistered in stone,
the students walked;
in the garden I sat alone.
Count to a hundred,
hide and freeze,
“ready or not”
under autumn trees;
October sun,
golden and hot.
The Roman road
stretched itself
under our feet,
kindly, a gleaming
grassy street.
A little child, dreaming,
studied catalpa leaves,
paper-bag brown,
the cherry’s flushed gold
lightly showering down –
the leaf in each fist
a wonder untold –
measured and confident,
came to my side
and with joy in his eyes
gave me autumn’s pride,
turning fallen leaves
to a matchless prize.
They line the paths today
under the rains,
but generous yesterday
remains.
27 October 2005
The Path Leads Onward by Martin Chambers
The path's leading upwards, through the cold dry black earth
To a cleft in the mountain, where a stream has its birth
And over a stone bridge it continues along
Then passing through woodland rich in bird song
And there close to the summit is a pillar of stones
And at its foot just a pile of dry bones
This path is not used much since the plague passed this way
Just trodden by strangers whose route's gone astray
The mountains are lonely, and devoid of most life
Just wind stunted heather, since the coming of strife.
The plague is not illness, but a state of one's mind
And a selfish containment that wealth has designed
It's a glance or a gesture, and an absence of care
And a lack of compassion, and not being aware
For the path leads us onward through our own selfish space
To consumer attachment and a life of disgrace
Roger's Courtin' Angie - Sue Millard
Roger’s courtin’ Angie. He’s a townee but a’ right.
He’ll come and chop mi logs up, then tek ‘er out at night.
She’s not bad lookin’, sees ta, though she’s forty now, or more;
But our Angela’s an odd one, an’ ‘er temper’s kind of raw.
She’ll ‘ave what money I can leave, my farm an’ Mother’s too.
‘E’s a worker is that Roger, what she gets ‘e’s welcome to.
But don’t look for t’engagement in “Hatched, Matched an’ Dispatched”;
It’ll tek a damn good Roger to keep our Angie catch’t.
Celandines - Sue Millard
It's tough tae be a celandine
in canny auld
We cannat grow in t' Council beds
tae mek the people smile.
We grow amang the hyacinths
an' primulas so bold,
by t' traffic lights on Shaddongate,
our yellow, to their gold.
Just as we raise our bonnie heeds
tae shine tee best effect,
a man wi't strimmer comes along
an' strims us off be t' neck.
But tek gud heed, ye council men
who so suppress our cheer -
our tubers lurk beneath the grund
an' we'll be back next yeer!
(in response to a piece on Radio
A Country Fable - Sue Millard
Behold my neighbour, Mrs Rush,
Who lives a life of dash-and-push.
She goes at such a furious pace
I’ve never met her face to face.
She flies past in her Subaru
Ignoring such as me and you;
Expects the narrow lanes to clear
Whenever they are blessed to hear
The music of her two-tone horn,
Whether at evening or at morn.
She’ll never pause to say Good-Day
While ponies jump out from her way,
Nor worry, if a straying sheep
Should knock a wall down in its leap
To safety as she rushes by –
“Let others trouble, why should I?”
I heard though that the other day
A wagon loaded high with hay,
Delivering it to a farm,
Caused Mrs Rush substantial harm.
She, flying home with her well-worn
Fantasia upon the horn,
Found the leviathan astride
The farm-road, and her way denied.
Her neighbours, sweating high in air,
Pretended that she wasn’t there,
But prompted by the klaxon wails
They accurately dropped two bales –
Fifty pounds each from ten feet up –
And, wonderful, the horn shut up.
White faced and shaking, Mrs Rush
Reversed amid the mirth-filled hush
And with her dented roof and boot
Turned tail, and found another route.
This morning, Mrs Rush went by
Rather more slowly, to my eye.
The neighbours hope they soon may quell
Her husband, Mr Rush, as well.
