Phil Barrett

Biography

Education June 2010 Apples & Snakes ESCAPE Masterclass: Professional Development for Poets: Safeguarding Policy & Tools for Schools. April 2010 Arvon Tutored Writing Retreat with Peter Sansom and Cherry Smyth. May 2009 Arvon Tutored Writing Retreat with Lavinia Greenlaw. 2008 – 2011 Participated in various writing courses, workshops and classes at the Poetry School ; Norwich Writers Centre; and elsewhere with amongst others: Neil Rollinson; Maurice Riordan; Don Paterson; Susan Wicks; Mimi Khalvati; Jo Shapcott; Tim Turnbull; George Szirtes; Moniza Alvi, Peter Sansom and Neil Astley. Sept 2008 Offered a place (subsequently turned down) on the Creative Writing MA at Norwich University of the Arts (‘Writing the Visual’). 1978 – 2008 Various In-service Teachers’ Courses: through National Institutions, Subject Associations (NSEAD; ISADA) Inset providers and Examination Boards; including ongoing subject-based curriculum and pastoral training courses. Late 1990’s Attended a number of courses run by the Artists Teachers Scheme in conjunction with Tate Modern and Wimbledon School of Art; plus creative writing classes at both the National and Tate Galleries. 1978 –1980 Attended a Creative Writing Evening Class run by Blake Morrison at Goldsmith’s College, also attended by Wendy Cope. Oct 1977 – 1978 Art Teachers Certificate (ATC), Goldsmith’s College. The major written work for my Teaching Certificate was a book of poems with accompanying commentary. July 1975 Awarded BA First Class Honours Degree in Fine Art, with a commendation in Complementary Studies for my dissertation (which was a book of poetry, as was a major element of the sculptural installation for my Degree Show. 1972 – 1975 Kingston Polytechnic, (formerly Kingston College of Art, now Kingston University) Studied Fine Art Sculpture. Time divided between visual work and creative writing. 1971 – 1972 Art Foundation Course, Great Yarmouth College of Art and Design. 1963 –1971 Culford School, Bury St Edmunds. 1957 – 1963 Roseberry Avenue School, King’s Lynn, Norfolk. Employment February 2011 Asked to run workshops in Felbrigg ‘Book Week’ and Salthouse 2011, as well as in Cromer and Sherringham Libraries on National Poetry Day. Oct 2009 – Jan 2011 A range of ‘taster-days’, in a Nursery, Primary and Secondary School as a ‘Poet in School’, as well as with individuals, (see attached testimonials). Oct 2009 – July 2010 Part-time gallery guard at the Haunch of Venison Gallery. Sept 1981 – 2008 Head of Art at the Purcell School, with additional tutorial and pastoral roles (including, at various times: Head of the Sixth Form; and Joint Pastoral Coordinator); along with running a range of extra-curricula activities and events. Nov 1978 – July 1981 Arts Council of Great Britain part-time employment in a range of support and administrative roles. Professional February 2011 Invited to be a Trustee of the Norwich Puppet Theatre. Started a monthly Creative Writing Group with Cley Poetry Circle. Exploring programme ideas with Future Radio Norwich. November 2010 Invited to join the Committee of the Wells Poetry Festival ‘Poetry-Next-The-Sea’ and ‘Cley Poetry Circle Little Festival’. July 2010 – Responsible for setting up and managing an Advanced Poetry Seminar Group in Kings Cross led by Cherry Smyth. Up-to-date CRB check (through NAWE). 2009 – Professional Membership of the National Association of Writers in Education (NAWE) which includes coverage under the NAWE Public Liability Insurance Scheme. 2000 – Membership of: The Poetry Society; The Poetry Book Society; Arvon Friends; Friend of Wells Poetry-next-the-Sea; 1981 – 2008 Membership of various professional teaching associations: GTC; NSEAD; ISADA. Publication History Phil Barrett is a prize winning poet, with poems published in a number of competition anthologies; most recently winning first prize in the 2009 Barnet Open Poetry Competition (for ‘Like a Door Full of Light’ – judge Mario Petrucci), and a second prize in the 2009 Ravenglass Competition (for ‘A Lump of Coal’ – judge John Burnside). His poems have previously won: 1st prize in the 1999 English Poetry and Song Society Open Poetry Competition (judge Moyra Caldecott); 2nd prize in the 1995 Kent and Sussex Open (judge Maura Dooley.) and received Commendations in the 2008 Kent and Sussex Open Competition (judge Ruth Padel); the1999 Barnet Open (judge Robert Seater) and 1995 Kingston Open Competitions. Phil’s poems were included in ‘Herga Poets’ winning submission for ‘Writing Magazine’s’ annual Anthology Trophy and are included in the WordAid Anthology ‘Did I Tell You?’ 131 poems for Children in Need 2011, along side Andrew Motion, Esther Morgan, George Szirtes, Katherine Gallagher, Mimi Khalvati, Ruth Padel, Vicki Feaver, Patience Agabi and others; one was published on the ‘Ink, Sweat and Tears’ Webzine – 12 Days of Christmas 26th Dec 2011; with a video performance appearing shortly on the Apples and Snakes new Jawdance YouTube channel. Teaching After 27 years of teaching I have recently taken early retirement in order to focus entirely on my writing. Although trained as a visual artist, with a teaching career largely spent working within Art and Design, my practice has always been heavily weighted towards poetry, and in recent years has become entirely so. I have previously: taught a GCSE Creative Writing module for the English Department at the Purcell School (see attached testimonial); as well as running: termly poetry evenings; leading individual and group extra-curricula creative writing classes for both mixed age and ability groups and individuals (see attached testimonials). I was ‘Poet in School’ for a day’s Book Week Workshop at Surbiton High School. And during an exhibition of my sculpture, paintings and poetry at the Fovea Gallery in Oct 2005 I ran Outreach, creative writing sessions for local primary schools (see attached testimonial). I have taken part in an Opera Writing Project, (writing a libretto); a ‘Writing an Opera with Children’ course at the Royal Opera House; a group Pantomime writing project; and also devised and led a number of mixed media, puppetry, mask-making, film and music theatre workshops/events, both at the Purcell School and elsewhere, including school ‘Reading Week’ workshops for the Children’s Discovery Centre. At the Purcell School I also instigated: Cabarets; Arts Weeks; and a range of cross-curricula activities. Writing Creative writing, whether as an activity in its own right, or as a more appropriate tool of learning, did not feature with any significance when I was at school, and I constantly ‘fell’ at the, seemingly all important, hurdles of ‘spelling and grammar’. Only the advent of computers finally helped me to successfully overcome these. I have always felt that perhaps this has helped me to appreciate better the lack-of-confidence and insecurity felt by others, and to wish to bolster a sense of ‘ownership’ and confidence – in language, intuitive self-expression, imagination and thought, as well as powers of insight and observation – so as to be able to more fully express oneself and learn. It provides a very different and, I feel, more appropriate learning strategy, for those who need to learn more creatively, how to climb towards self-confidence. Ben Elton once said ‘How am I supposed to know what I think until I’ve said it!’ For me writing is like this: trying to get my thoughts down on paper, uncensored, before beginning to distil, shape and edit them, into something more concise and essential. A slow developer, it has taken me a long time to discover greater confidence in what I do, even though I have always known, deep down, that I wanted to do it. Writing for me is one of life’s greatest joys and adventures; and the most important way of expressing and exploring what I think and feel, and what it feels like to be alive. Seizing the opportunity which Art College then presented (as a spawning ground for ways of working, not focused on, or offered by, the old disciplines of art; opportunities for utilising alternative media – film, music, writing, etc.) I found myself in an environment, and structure, which allowed someone with my strengths and weaknesses to exist, since my work, then as now, was heavily weighted towards the written word. Many writers and artists say that they are looking for something that surprises, something that they don't feel they have seen before. That is what I am looking for also – in my own work and in the work of others.

Samples

CONTENTS PAGE I’M ONE OF THE PURPLE PEOPLE 2 WHEN I AM AWAKE I LIKE TO TALK 2 CELEBRATION POEM 4 POETRY IS NICE TO EAT 5 POETS ARE LIKE GARDENERS 5 WHAT’S WAITING AT THE OTHER END 5 IN POETRY 6 ANIMALS 7 WHAT VERY STRANGE CREATURES 7 WHAT AM I? 8 A PIANO 8 OWNERSHIP 9 LIES ABOUT A VIOLIN 10 TYPEWRITERS 11 COLOUR 11 MY POETRY PEN 12 GOT A 13 BILLY 13 STEALING 14 I AM THE MAN 15 FRUIT-DE-TERRE 16 A LUMP OF COAL 16 LIFE’S GRAND 17 BOOT 18 JOBS 18 IN THE BEGINNING THERE WAS THE DARK 19 TAILORS LANE 20 THE WIND 21 TELLING STORIES TO THE WIND 22 DANGEROUS BLUE 22 HOW TO COOK A PENCIL 23 ADVERT & LITTLE LADDER 24 A DOG 25 THE CAT WITH THE DANCING FEET 25 MONEY 26 AIR 26 STONES (a work in progress) 27 I SUCK MY BIG TOE 28 WITHIN 28 LOVE POEM 29 SPOONING 29 FLING OPEN 29 EVANESCING LIGHT 30 BUSY PAINTING ANGELS 30 A MARTIAN SENDS A POSTCARD HOME 31 TELEPHONES 32 WINTER’S DOOR 33 THE LEAVES ARE GONE 34 THIS IS THE KEY 34 ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Dedicated to my daughter Katy without whose encouragement and diligence much of this could not have happened. CELEBRATION POEM ‘Celebration Poem’ was specially written for St. Mary's Endowed VA CE Primary. You are a star – oh yes you are – you, and you, the best by far. House points for Einstein, Britten or Fry – ‘You Are A Star’ we’ll hear them cry. Yes here is something to celebrate you being awarded a certificate. ‘Good Works’ to whisper? No shout out loud! – Don’t be modest when you should be proud. ‘Good Works’ to earn a great big hug, or a tug on the lug of your beaming mug. For here is a reason for hands to shake, three cheers for you and lets bake that cake. And we’ll whistle out loud as we give you a shove for you’ve certainly earned this bucket of love. POETRY IS NICE TO EAT Poetry is nice to eat, I eat some every day, it’s better for your teeth than sweets and keeps your brain cells grey. You can’t eat silly words you’ll say, that is a silly rhyme, but really it’s not so absurd, I eat mine all the time. POETS ARE LIKE GARDENERS (Dedicated to Jake, from Manor School, who showed me the way to write a better poem) Poets, are like gardeners, planting words inside your head. Poets, are like alchemists, making gold out of lead. Poets, are like mothers, tucking words up in bed. Poets, are like fathers, taking words apart in sheds. Poets, are like dancers, twirling words around the room. Poets, are like musicians, stringing words to make a tune. Poets, are like cooks, stirring words up with a spoon. Poets, are like lovers, giving words back to the moon. WHAT’S WAITING AT THE OTHER END It’s as if a poem begins within my pen, where the ink is like a piece of string. The poem begins to write itself, as I pull on the other end. IN POETRY In poetry 2 plus 2 can equal 5 for poetry’s about more than just being alive. In poetry there’s no wrong or right, for poetry’s about rainbows, not black and white. Poetry takes you where it wants to go, for you can find you’ve said what you didn’t know. In poetry there are seas but also skies, humungous truths, and ‘porky-pies.’ What ever else you try to say or do, poetry, though naughty, should never be rude. And remember, that poetry’s never wrong nor right, and the only way to make it is to write, and write, and write. ANIMALS Animals are made of feathers, Animals are made of glass, Animals are made of leather, Animals are made of grass. Animals are made of water, Animals are made of wood, Animals are made of whispers, Animals are made of woods. WHAT VERY STRANGE CREATURES (for Katy) What very strange creatures the moon and the star, the worm and the lizard, the daisy chain are, and the trail of the snail where it silvers the stone, and the blade of the grass, and the leaf, and the bone. The owl’s in the pear tree with the moon, the heron and swan on some misty lagoon, the old coin moon where a dream is lodged by man who ploughs and furrows the sod. * “How does it stay up there?” said the old man gazing at the moon round as a pocket. Evening and morning the old man would leave his house with his little dog. Then, mounting the brow of the hill, the little dog would bark silently into the night sky, as if opening a tiny suitcase of colour. Seeing the moon caught in a puddle, the little dog drank it, making not a sound. WHAT AM I ? I have no sense of right or wrong – even the smallest crack makes me think I am on the wrong side of it. I find my way around anything and by the shortest route, without ever having been before. I can fill any shape I can stand up in but mostly I lie down. Sometimes I can seem to hang forever. Boiling, I am not quite. Frozen, I am not quite either. Quiet, unless aroused, sometimes I arrive unexpectedly across country as if to heighten the surprise. If I roar it is fabulous, if I murmur it is to myself, thoughtful, reflective, imperceptible. I have an appetite yet can be at peace with all things, even myself. A little of me goes a long way. A PIANO A piano has nine legs and one wing but cannot fly. Its feet remain firmly on the ground. When its mouth is closed, it is silent. A windscreen supports a map of sorts, tiny flags marking the route. When the flags run out the music stops. Sometimes the air becomes thick with applause. Two legs then get up, and, resting a hand on the lip of the piano, bow as the piano smiles contentedly. OWNERSHIP As gulls own the sound of the sea, as ducks own a pond, as blue-tits flit from tree to tree, as robins own a song; as swifts own the open sky, as kestrels own the ground, as blackbirds own the garden lawn, as magpies own that sound; as herons own the shapes they make, as skylarks own the sun, as swans reflect upon a lake, as starlings fly as one; as owls own the disc of moon, as sparrows own a bush, as pigeons think they own a tune, as an anvil owns a thrush; all birds own the song they sing, like church bells own their towers, but though birds may have the gift of wings the bees own all the flowers. LIES ABOUT A VIOLIN The shape of the wind is a violin and full of light. Hard on the outside, hollow on the inside, a violin is a jug full of sound, when poured out the sound flies away. Violins can go anywhere; violins have everywhere to go. They soar through the air like birds. They rise and fall, pursuing an idea, that is music. Violins are full; they are trying to be empty. TYPEWRITERS (for Dora) have a mouth full of teeth an orthodontist would have a field day with. They tolerate poking fingers but dream of glissandos. They sit and wait patiently to pour their hearts out, wanting to rub our noses in it or print us tickets to the stars. Squat creatures, they are waiting for someone to tickle their fancies, they want to bounce free across country, paper streaming behind them like hair. COLOUR What if there were no colour, just a black and white world and you came upon some wouldn’t you try to take it home? Once home you would take it out, let it settle on some specially chosen thing. Then gradually, under cover of darkness, with the doors locked and the curtains tightly drawn, you might let it spread, slowly transforming the entire room. MY POETRY PEN Its not a very special pen yet somehow it seems to know that once I’ve picked it up it will find it has something quite remarkable to say, as if I only have to turn it on. That all I need is to take it for a walk across the snow white landscape of a clean white page, or set it running along the ruled railway of the pages lines. To help it write my hand supports it on its way, it being much too long and thin to stand-up on its own. But I’m amazed to see that things I’ve never ever thought before somehow materialise in spidery words slipping, ink-like, from the tip most end of an otherwise unremarkable pen. And, all at once, a poem appears quite un-expected, in its subject, style and length, until the pen, seeming to know just when to start, also seems to know just when to end. GOT A Got a garden, got a house, even got a little mouse, Got a cat to keep him clean, got a length of runner bean. Got a lot of which I’m fond but haven’t got a magic wand. Got a stripy gown to wear, got a beard and grew my hair, Got myself a pointed hat, got a book of this and that, Got a spell, a spell indeed, but a wizards wand is what I need. I need a wand, have got the sack of frog and toad and weed and rat, Have got a spell, it doesn’t work, have tried it out, and felt a berk. A wizard then, is what I’ll be but got to find a wizard’s tree. BILLY Billy little, Billy small, Billy isn’t very tall. Billy shorter than a rule, cause Billy he is miniscule. Billy short, cause Billy is really quite diminutive. STEALING (after Carol Ann Duffy) Yesterday I stole a house. The street was quiet and, though it left a rather awkward gap, what could I do? I saw it, wanted it, and before I could stop myself I’d picked it up and popped it in my pocket, like a tooth. * Today I stole a wood. I didn’t want it., nobody seemed to want it. I had no thought of where to put it, just stood it in a corner of my room. First I took a sapling, slipped it in the car at dead of night. No one seemed to notice the trees thinning out, no one seemed to care. Little by little the room began to fill up, smelling of woods. I spent more and more time in my room, more so once the birds began to fill the room with song. I AM THE MAN (after Wendy Cope) I am the man who is very fond of nonsense. Very fond of nonsense is the man who I am. Fond of nonsense, I am the very man who is. Nonsense is the man of who I am very fond. The man who is nonsense, I am very fond of. I am who the man of nonsense is very fond. Is the man nonsense of who I am very fond? Nonsense, I am who the man is very fond of. Very fond of the man I am. Nonsense! Who is? Very fond of nonsense the man is. Who am I? FRUIT-DE-TERRE Plump, not round, but shapely like a slightly fleshy stone, this unprepossessing form lacks the promise of other ‘fruit’. Prized from the ground, ‘fool’s gold’ they must have thought when Sir Walter brought them back – till baked, peeled, boiled, fried or roasted, even mashed – a buttered feast – the inner flesh, rendered edible, filled hungry mouths. Who first dug them up? Who thought them worth the bother, among such treasure or so many other misshapen things? Certainly not a store of stars, and yet they are a miracle of sorts, clustering round our searching prongs, miraculously multiplied, when we bend to tease them from the ground. A LUMP OF COAL Black as a bog diamond, she recognised the compressed history of its shape, layers of growth, written in its dark seam rich as the gleam on moonlit puddled oil. It’s angled edge, like something dropped, dark as an essence, precious as an eye; impenetrable as someone drowned their glazed stare gazing back. She added it to the others bundled in her coat, as if to keep it warm, herself no more than a huddled shape between two worlds, of which she knew the appetite and weight. She knew the riches of a little wealth; the miracle of little gods. She scurried home with what she’d gleaned, this piece of gold as black as night. LIFE’S GRAND Grandpa takes them to feed the ducks, Grandma gets them to sort odd socks. Grandpa teaches them to use a saw, Grandma lets them wash the floor. Grandpa lets them ride his trolley, Grandma makes a tea for dolly. Grandpa helps them wash the car, Grandma says they’ve gone too far. Grandpa shares their ticking off, Grandma dries them with a cloth. Grandpa pats them on the head, Grandma takes them off to bed. Grandpa’s soon gone off to sleep, as Grandma’s ready to put up her feet. Grandpa’s finished for the day, as Grandma’s still putting ‘stuff’ away. BOOT This one boot has become separated from its one foot like a strange fruit or an empty room. It knows nothing of the days that shaped its appearance. It remembers nothing, not even the wrinkles on an old face; perhaps once one of a pair now quite alone. JOBS Policemen deal with law and order. Builders build with bricks and mortar. A fireman’s job is to put things out. Doctors and nurses like to prod us about. Postmen sort and deliver the mail. Vets look after animals, though probably not snails. IN THE BEGINNING THERE WAS DARK In the beginning there was dark. for darkness was everywhere, over everything. Then came fire. Not a big fire, more like a spark that glimmered in the dark. Unexpectedly the spark began to run, like a mouse between dark feet, leaving a glowing trail. Taken by surprise the darkness jumped, wanting to stamp-out the fire, but being slow and lumbering, where fire was quick and unpredictable, it skittered all the more. Suddenly fire flared-up and embraced the dark consuming it with flames as, licking its lips, it acquired an appetite and burned till there was nothing left to burn. Finally all that was left of fire was an occasional spark rising and glowing in the dark, like a new born star. TAILORS LANE Down Tailors Lane there’s suits of grass, and leaves from trees sewn dense and sparse. Down Tailors Lane there’s suits of skin that stitch and button to the chin. Down Tailors Lane there’s suits of feathers and oily ones for any weather. Down Tailors Lane the strangest kind of suits are made from hedgehog spine. You’ll get a suit down Tailors Lane; you’ll get a suit of tailored rain. For down Tailors Lane the hedges line with frosty lengths of tailor’s twine. THE WIND I have seen the wind stalking the skies like a colossus. I’ve seen its large shape moving shadows like dark bruises on bright landscapes; I’ve seen it casual as a dreamer, trail its finger through calm waters; seen it running through tall grasses invisible as light; seen it petulantly whipping; sensed it riding across country; seen it clinging to the seas back; or jockeying the land. I’ve seen it tearing down high fences; felt it mustering its forces; watched it patiently waiting; rounding corners like a wall. I have met it in a side street. I have smarted from its hard hand. Felt it, forceful as a bully, pushing past to somewhere else. I’ve seen it playful in a corner, stir a ring of leaves and paper. Heard its small voice through the keyhole and its shoulder test the door. I have registered the silence, felt its soft touch on my old cheek, Felt its weight against my body and its hand, inside my own. TELLING STORIES TO THE WIND Birds gather in the dark. An old man waits for rain. An old man talking to the wind, a wind that’s talking back again. The city streets are broad and dark. The streets and wind are both the same. The old man listens to the wind, a wind that listens back again. The old man’s voice is like the wind, a wind that’s full of rain. He tells his stories to the wind, which tells his stories back again. The wind is playing in the dark. A door is playing in the wind. An old man listens to the wind, a wind that’s whispering his name. DANGEROUS BLUE As I went down to the dangerous sea, the dangerous deep blue sea, I met a man where the fishermen land and he told this tale to me. He told a tale of the ships that sail across the dangerous blue, how the waves will keep, for the sea never sleeps, any ship that doesn’t get through. As I went down to the dangerous sea, the dangerous deep blue sea, I met a man who was pale as the sand, and whose eyes were a stony grey. His face foretold of the terrible cold beneath the terrible blue, of the terrible sleep that the sailors keep from the ships that don’t get through. HOW TO COOK A PENCIL (after Ian MacMillan) Ingredient - one pencil Method 1) Sharpen the pencil. 2) Remove the lead from the pencil sharpener and sharpen the pencil. 3) Try to put the pencil in the pan. 4) Use the pencil sharpener to shorten the pencil until it fits in the pan. 5) Turn on and light the gas. 6) Settle down to watch ‘20 Things To Do With A Pencil.’ 7) Smell burning. 8) Inspect pan. No water in it. 9) Pour water into pan with pencil in it. 10) Settle down to watch Delia Smith’s ’20 Ways to Cook a Pencil.’ 11) Go to toilet and on way back inspect pan. 12) Pan on wrong ring. 13) Put pan on right ring. 14) Sit down again to watch ’20 Greatest Pencils’ and ‘Pencils I have loved.’ 15) Smell burning. 16) Pan has boiled dry. 17) Take pencil out of pan and try to sharpen it with pencil sharpener. 18) Sit down to use pencil to write a poem titled ‘How to cook a pencil’, but pencil won’t write. 19) So have to type poem. ADVERT Bored with just sitting still? Why not entertain a flea? Too comfortable in your chair or bed? Why not enjoy a good scratch? Ordinary bites just don’t compare; and fleas are easy to use anywhere. You could share us with a friend; even with the dog! This could be the bite you’ve been waiting for! So why wait any longer? Call us today and let’s ‘Get hopping!’ LITTLE LADDER I’ve got a little ladder I take it everywhere a ladder meant for dreaming – its better than a chair. And when I fold it open – it stands up like an A – I climb the steps up, one-by-one, and sit on top and pray. A DOG Is a table with a leg at each corner trying on angles of head. It is a stick with a dog clamped to it; a hole burying a stone. Its eyes are like windows with shapes passing. It’s a tail with a dog attached; a ball chasing a nose. Furry and un-swept, it is compact like a carpet, Or leans and curls, neat as punctuation, every hand a home. It spins and folds and leaps like a deckchair, yet lands sunny-side-up. It can turn on a sixpence, head smiling at gravity, ears pointing to other possibilities. It does a two legged trick for hands and plates and homecomings. Wearing its growl on the inside, its teeth like postman’s trousers but will settle for less. Though it springs like a dog’s idea of a firework, its dish, the moon, is always empty. THE CAT WITH THE DANCING FEET (for Polly and Dodger) The cat with the dancing feet is touched with the sap of spring, its toes are terribly neat, as it dances around in its skin. Between the defiant young blooms it dribbles, as if with a mouse, but its gravity is not of our moon, it’s a window pane short of a house. Oh cat that’s too big for your brain, there’s a garden inside your own head, where you dance like a short burst of rain, and for the rest of the day stay in bed. MONEY Half the world can’t get enough of it. The other half can’t get enough of it either. Half the world aren’t satisfied. The other half aren’t satisfied either. Those who can, don’t. Those that don’t, can’t. If you have it you can make more of it. If you don’t have any you can’t make anything at all. It doesn’t show a preference. It isn’t affectionate or proud. We are everything it needs – Someone to look after it and to be loved. AIR We live in it as if it were nothing but we need it more than it needs us. We use it without thinking, like being. If it stopped there would be nowhere left to go for us. STONES (a work in progress) Stones are heavy. Stones are silent. They sit alone in the dark. They do not laugh much (they do not laugh at all). They never whisper. They are beyond argument. Stones are swift. Stones are sudden. They can travel faster than a small boy, faster than thought, but are without malice. Stones click and clack. They disguise themselves in mud emerging in proliferation and though not flowers were never meant to be. Stones have no strategies they are the playthings of the sea and weather. Left out under the stars they don’t

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