Launched in 2022, the first year's challenge is now available as a book: A year of writing prompts. Read it to get a good idea of how to tackle this.
Every month a painting is selected from a professional artist belonging to www.creativecoverage.co.uk.
Contributors are invited to submit a poem up to 30 lines or a story up to 500 words (as a Word .doc file) about the painting.
The deadline is four weeks from the published date, so the deadline for the May 5 prompt will be June 5 and so on.
The submissions are initially published on this website and then in a book.
Please email submissions (with the date of the prompt in the subject bar) to tsaunderspubs@gmail.com
Every month a painting is selected from a professional artist belonging to www.creativecoverage.co.uk.
Contributors are invited to submit a poem up to 30 lines or a story up to 500 words (as a Word .doc file) about the painting.
The deadline is four weeks from the published date, so the deadline for the May 5 prompt will be June 5 and so on.
The submissions are initially published on this website and then in a book.
Please email submissions (with the date of the prompt in the subject bar) to tsaunderspubs@gmail.com
May 5, 2023
Moon in the canopy, acrylics, 100 x 100cm by Andrew Halliday
www.creativecoverage.co.uk
www.creativecoverage.co.uk
The dilemma of Gadwin Thomas on viewing a painting
by Don Magee
Gadwin Thomas was a patriotic Welshman, born in Wales, and rooted in the practice of being Welsh. His dilemma, let's call it as it is, was that he had a dichotomy of needs; he liked solitude yet he craved, and welcomed social interactions. His dilemma was how to balance that need, also given his Welshness, how to factor that in. In his transient state he was comfortable with his own company; he had friends, both sexes, but he concluded he was his own best friend that, to most readers, is very bizarre, and downright weird. He loved solitary walks in the dark, a moonlight searching in woodland or pasture; here he was at ease, at peace but strangely uncomfortable for it did not satisfy the socialness of his need. He first thought that need needed not a specific form, that is human, or animal or media. Yet all and none gathered in the satisfaction of his dilemma, social solitude. Gadwin was sincere in his attitude but often met insincerity returned by those who could not think of who outside the box that was their sincerity, and were unmoved by imitations of mortality that came with viewing a painting. Gadwin surmised life (his life) is not only altered, changed, mutated (choose a phrase) by people, but what you see, what you hear, and very often what you visit. This trepidation came to a head one day when he saw a painting titled Moon in a canopy. He gazed, at first puzzled, then smiling as this brought to mind a recognised memory; that this moonscape conjured up how he was, thought, and what he was looking for of justification of who he was. Confused how this could come about, perhaps, but come about it did. And thus is the beauty of recognising yourself in another’s work. He had walked a path that was the painting, and it both disturbed, and enlightened him. And where is this tale going? He thought back to the painting he once saw, or did he? Was it a memory, or a memory of a memory? The painting was stark, brutal in some aspect, and summed up his need, that is sentient solitude but with an undercurrent of socialisation. Now you may think this is stretching imagery, and imagination too far, but that would be to think as you do, and not Gadwin. So one dusk filled evening he opened a Merlot wine, shouldered his angst and wrote a poem, which surprised him as he was seldom inclined to verse. And in the conclusion; breathe, breathe Gadwin for you are not alone in your mental perturbation, neither are you mad, bad, or socialised strange. Normality peeks from your verse.
The poem
Reflection on a painting
Gadwin walked the long path dark,
stencilled branches in brutal form
as sharpened teeth in a winter storm
shadowed in sullen coloured dusk
with moon struck glitter through bonded husk
that was the tree brush silence.
So bitter sweet in this tempered aspect
and who to meet, and who to greet
come hooting owls and scuttled sounds
beneath the canopy’s darkened floor.
And what to make of this folded scene?
In drizzled mist, a bitter dream
floating about as a cautioned thought
so eager once, but now not sought
in a deafened night time sky.
Breathe, breathe came the whisper in Gadwin's ear
and thus he stilled, and calmed his nerves
as comfort swallowed him, not to fear
but peace in short gaze, as silent curves
above him in that sheltered glade.
Don Magee
The Other Side
Mangled branches in clear view
the moon peeping through
a lone wolf howling long
gifting darkness with song
from the emptiness of a soul
a great longing to be whole
resonating with the dark side
of the moon and the great divide
you feel it too in flesh and bone
why else do beings feel alone?
This aching void deep within
feel it and let the healing begin
for the restless waves we are
from a source so very far
calmed by a moon oh so full
save for the pain of the pull.
Russila Moodley
The tree and the moon
The full moon on her journey through the sky is visible between the branches and leaves of the sycamore tree. Her golden light comes and goes from behind the slow moving summer night clouds. A tawny owl hardly visible on his favourite bough perches, his back to the comforting bole of the tree. His round face, eyes wide open, constantly turns from side to side as he listens for the movement of tiny claws and squeaks from the leaf debris beneath the tree. The nightjar is quietly resting after his first frantic flight of the darkening night. Snug in a slight dip along his favourite branch, he is hardly noticeable. The nightjar flies with his large beak wide open, trawling the air catching the first unwary moths and beetles to take to the wing.
As the dark deepens they will both take to the air again, their powerful wings silently beating the air. Always alert to swoop on unsuspecting ready meals - the nightjar, wide winged across the sky, calling “Chi-chi” occasionally to his mate. The tawny owl skims the grass, alert for the slightest rustle, prepared to dive, talons spread ready to grasp any a small scared wriggling rodent. After a successful catch he perches on a fence post and “Hoots” to his mate. The many other tenants of the tree ignore the owl and the nightjar at their peril. To stay alive they must remain tightly hidden. Their time comes with dawn and the rising of the sun. The moon having played her part, unnoticed, quietly disappears from the sky.
Mary Buchan
"I have seen the nightjar just as I describe," says Mary. "Late on a summer's night waiting for free range hens to go to roost."
Love is not a full moon in a tropical sky
I found myself
when I was not looking,
that person I should
like to be,
inspired by actions,
people, places,
kinder,
braver,
more beautiful,
than at first they seemed.
I found myself
when I was not looking,
along a path
I had not tried,
happiness,
more than a single
brick,
love more than a
full moon in a
tropical sky.
Sharon Webster
The night time moon
The night-time shiny moon captivates, as it glows,
draws me to look, as out of it, bright light flows.
Illuminates the paths, for creeping fox, hooting owls.
Even through dark branches, it aids all, on nightly prowls.
Natural torch and I think, the most beautiful celestial sphere.
When it shines down, then I no longer feel fear.
How lovely, is the face of the man in the moon -
laughing at us all, until he fades away too soon.
Sister sun rises, but where does the moon go?
Guess the stars in space realize, but me, I just don't know.
Laura Sanders
The haunted woods
A coven of witches are not far away,
I hear them chant, at the close of the day.
In the dark, dark woods, where lost souls live,
solemn and creepy, trees bleed and give.
A murk lingers, as I hear their shrill calls,
where toadstools thrive and ghost shadows fall.
Around, they dance, on damp leaf litter.
The spirits come out, to do a nocturnal flitter.
Moonlight wraps around, a glow through the trees,
my spirit is imprisoned, no longer set free.
I fight against their spell, I enter the clearing,
alone in the woods, the hags, I'm still fearing.
Laura Sanders
by Don Magee
Gadwin Thomas was a patriotic Welshman, born in Wales, and rooted in the practice of being Welsh. His dilemma, let's call it as it is, was that he had a dichotomy of needs; he liked solitude yet he craved, and welcomed social interactions. His dilemma was how to balance that need, also given his Welshness, how to factor that in. In his transient state he was comfortable with his own company; he had friends, both sexes, but he concluded he was his own best friend that, to most readers, is very bizarre, and downright weird. He loved solitary walks in the dark, a moonlight searching in woodland or pasture; here he was at ease, at peace but strangely uncomfortable for it did not satisfy the socialness of his need. He first thought that need needed not a specific form, that is human, or animal or media. Yet all and none gathered in the satisfaction of his dilemma, social solitude. Gadwin was sincere in his attitude but often met insincerity returned by those who could not think of who outside the box that was their sincerity, and were unmoved by imitations of mortality that came with viewing a painting. Gadwin surmised life (his life) is not only altered, changed, mutated (choose a phrase) by people, but what you see, what you hear, and very often what you visit. This trepidation came to a head one day when he saw a painting titled Moon in a canopy. He gazed, at first puzzled, then smiling as this brought to mind a recognised memory; that this moonscape conjured up how he was, thought, and what he was looking for of justification of who he was. Confused how this could come about, perhaps, but come about it did. And thus is the beauty of recognising yourself in another’s work. He had walked a path that was the painting, and it both disturbed, and enlightened him. And where is this tale going? He thought back to the painting he once saw, or did he? Was it a memory, or a memory of a memory? The painting was stark, brutal in some aspect, and summed up his need, that is sentient solitude but with an undercurrent of socialisation. Now you may think this is stretching imagery, and imagination too far, but that would be to think as you do, and not Gadwin. So one dusk filled evening he opened a Merlot wine, shouldered his angst and wrote a poem, which surprised him as he was seldom inclined to verse. And in the conclusion; breathe, breathe Gadwin for you are not alone in your mental perturbation, neither are you mad, bad, or socialised strange. Normality peeks from your verse.
The poem
Reflection on a painting
Gadwin walked the long path dark,
stencilled branches in brutal form
as sharpened teeth in a winter storm
shadowed in sullen coloured dusk
with moon struck glitter through bonded husk
that was the tree brush silence.
So bitter sweet in this tempered aspect
and who to meet, and who to greet
come hooting owls and scuttled sounds
beneath the canopy’s darkened floor.
And what to make of this folded scene?
In drizzled mist, a bitter dream
floating about as a cautioned thought
so eager once, but now not sought
in a deafened night time sky.
Breathe, breathe came the whisper in Gadwin's ear
and thus he stilled, and calmed his nerves
as comfort swallowed him, not to fear
but peace in short gaze, as silent curves
above him in that sheltered glade.
Don Magee
The Other Side
Mangled branches in clear view
the moon peeping through
a lone wolf howling long
gifting darkness with song
from the emptiness of a soul
a great longing to be whole
resonating with the dark side
of the moon and the great divide
you feel it too in flesh and bone
why else do beings feel alone?
This aching void deep within
feel it and let the healing begin
for the restless waves we are
from a source so very far
calmed by a moon oh so full
save for the pain of the pull.
Russila Moodley
The tree and the moon
The full moon on her journey through the sky is visible between the branches and leaves of the sycamore tree. Her golden light comes and goes from behind the slow moving summer night clouds. A tawny owl hardly visible on his favourite bough perches, his back to the comforting bole of the tree. His round face, eyes wide open, constantly turns from side to side as he listens for the movement of tiny claws and squeaks from the leaf debris beneath the tree. The nightjar is quietly resting after his first frantic flight of the darkening night. Snug in a slight dip along his favourite branch, he is hardly noticeable. The nightjar flies with his large beak wide open, trawling the air catching the first unwary moths and beetles to take to the wing.
As the dark deepens they will both take to the air again, their powerful wings silently beating the air. Always alert to swoop on unsuspecting ready meals - the nightjar, wide winged across the sky, calling “Chi-chi” occasionally to his mate. The tawny owl skims the grass, alert for the slightest rustle, prepared to dive, talons spread ready to grasp any a small scared wriggling rodent. After a successful catch he perches on a fence post and “Hoots” to his mate. The many other tenants of the tree ignore the owl and the nightjar at their peril. To stay alive they must remain tightly hidden. Their time comes with dawn and the rising of the sun. The moon having played her part, unnoticed, quietly disappears from the sky.
Mary Buchan
"I have seen the nightjar just as I describe," says Mary. "Late on a summer's night waiting for free range hens to go to roost."
Love is not a full moon in a tropical sky
I found myself
when I was not looking,
that person I should
like to be,
inspired by actions,
people, places,
kinder,
braver,
more beautiful,
than at first they seemed.
I found myself
when I was not looking,
along a path
I had not tried,
happiness,
more than a single
brick,
love more than a
full moon in a
tropical sky.
Sharon Webster
The night time moon
The night-time shiny moon captivates, as it glows,
draws me to look, as out of it, bright light flows.
Illuminates the paths, for creeping fox, hooting owls.
Even through dark branches, it aids all, on nightly prowls.
Natural torch and I think, the most beautiful celestial sphere.
When it shines down, then I no longer feel fear.
How lovely, is the face of the man in the moon -
laughing at us all, until he fades away too soon.
Sister sun rises, but where does the moon go?
Guess the stars in space realize, but me, I just don't know.
Laura Sanders
The haunted woods
A coven of witches are not far away,
I hear them chant, at the close of the day.
In the dark, dark woods, where lost souls live,
solemn and creepy, trees bleed and give.
A murk lingers, as I hear their shrill calls,
where toadstools thrive and ghost shadows fall.
Around, they dance, on damp leaf litter.
The spirits come out, to do a nocturnal flitter.
Moonlight wraps around, a glow through the trees,
my spirit is imprisoned, no longer set free.
I fight against their spell, I enter the clearing,
alone in the woods, the hags, I'm still fearing.
Laura Sanders
April 2023
Urquhart Castle, Loch Ness, mounted print, 9.5x10.5in by Jonathan Wheeler
www.creativecoverage.co.uk
www.creativecoverage.co.uk
Urquhart Castle
by Mary Buchan
August 1948. We arrived at Inverness station, early in the morning having travelled from King’s Cross on the overnight sleeper pulled by the Flying Scotsman. My companion, a cousin I had never met before. We were met by an uncle, never met before. He was driving us to his farm, some six miles north of Loch Ness. Waiting there for us my aunt, my father’s eldest sister Gwen with their boys Ian and Alistair; likewise never met before. They had returned to Scotland from India. Forced by India’s new independence to give up their Tea Plantation.
“Look, I think that must be him.”
“Hello, I am Nan.”
“Hello, I am Shirley.”
“Hello, pleased to see you. I am Uncle Mackie.”
Warm greetings and introductions swiftly made, we clambered into Mackie’s car with our luggage and set off for the farm.
The first part of the journey was along the north shore of Loch Ness. I set my eyes on the sun-tipped choppy waters of the Ness. Looking for one thing, one thing only, a glimpse of the much mentioned Loch Ness Monster. Nothing. Hard not to be a little disappointed.
As my uncle turned the car away from the loch I caught sight of a very aged and battle-scarred castle, still solid, intriguing and very beautiful in the bright early morning sunshine.
“Look Shirley, a castle.”
“That’s Urquhart Castle,” Mackie chipped in. “We see it every time we drive to Inverness.”
Urquhart. The name itself, full of mystery and excitement. The castle stands on a small promontory at the entrance to Glen Urquhart. Here two rivers, the Renrick and the Coiltie run through the small town of Drumnadrochit, before joining the waters of the Ness. It is said the elusive Loch Ness Monster could possibly hide in the tunnels and dungeons of the castle.
In 1948 the castle was not yet open to the public. Sixty years were to pass before I set eyes on the castle again. This time I was being driven by my cousin Ian and his wife Lorraine with whom I was to stay. I had the merest glimpse of the castle through the trees on the far shore; looking very small from across a mile of the cold uninviting water of the Ness. Ian now lived in Foyers on the south shore of the Ness. On the second day of my visit Ian decided to return to the farm.
“Nan having you here is a good excuse to return to Kilmartin. I thought you would like to see again where we had such fun that summer you came to stay.”
“I would love to. What a good idea.”
Returning. not always a good idea. By the time we had made the long journey to Inverness then to Drumnadrochit so much had changed, not only the weather. Urquhart Castle sat forlorn, shrouded in the cold grey mist lying thick over the loch.
by Mary Buchan
August 1948. We arrived at Inverness station, early in the morning having travelled from King’s Cross on the overnight sleeper pulled by the Flying Scotsman. My companion, a cousin I had never met before. We were met by an uncle, never met before. He was driving us to his farm, some six miles north of Loch Ness. Waiting there for us my aunt, my father’s eldest sister Gwen with their boys Ian and Alistair; likewise never met before. They had returned to Scotland from India. Forced by India’s new independence to give up their Tea Plantation.
“Look, I think that must be him.”
“Hello, I am Nan.”
“Hello, I am Shirley.”
“Hello, pleased to see you. I am Uncle Mackie.”
Warm greetings and introductions swiftly made, we clambered into Mackie’s car with our luggage and set off for the farm.
The first part of the journey was along the north shore of Loch Ness. I set my eyes on the sun-tipped choppy waters of the Ness. Looking for one thing, one thing only, a glimpse of the much mentioned Loch Ness Monster. Nothing. Hard not to be a little disappointed.
As my uncle turned the car away from the loch I caught sight of a very aged and battle-scarred castle, still solid, intriguing and very beautiful in the bright early morning sunshine.
“Look Shirley, a castle.”
“That’s Urquhart Castle,” Mackie chipped in. “We see it every time we drive to Inverness.”
Urquhart. The name itself, full of mystery and excitement. The castle stands on a small promontory at the entrance to Glen Urquhart. Here two rivers, the Renrick and the Coiltie run through the small town of Drumnadrochit, before joining the waters of the Ness. It is said the elusive Loch Ness Monster could possibly hide in the tunnels and dungeons of the castle.
In 1948 the castle was not yet open to the public. Sixty years were to pass before I set eyes on the castle again. This time I was being driven by my cousin Ian and his wife Lorraine with whom I was to stay. I had the merest glimpse of the castle through the trees on the far shore; looking very small from across a mile of the cold uninviting water of the Ness. Ian now lived in Foyers on the south shore of the Ness. On the second day of my visit Ian decided to return to the farm.
“Nan having you here is a good excuse to return to Kilmartin. I thought you would like to see again where we had such fun that summer you came to stay.”
“I would love to. What a good idea.”
Returning. not always a good idea. By the time we had made the long journey to Inverness then to Drumnadrochit so much had changed, not only the weather. Urquhart Castle sat forlorn, shrouded in the cold grey mist lying thick over the loch.
