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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 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 [email protected] 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. |
December 2024
Lifeline, Not Much Time Left, 84 x 55cm, framed by Richard Blacklaw-Jones
www.creativecoverage.co.uk
www.creativecoverage.co.uk
April 2024
Shifting shapes, Peak District, acrylic, 12" x 12" by Brian Steventon RBSA
www.creativecoverage.co.uk
www.creativecoverage.co.uk
Peak weather
My car safely parked; just a few steps to my favourite
vantage point to scan my favourite view. As usual my
eye was drawn to the ancient stone wall as it
wandered across the side of the hill. Occasionally a
square of walls with a gap; used for holding the sheep
for inspection. The wall continued dipping and rising
to the contours until it disappeared from sight at the
edge of what I knew to be a narrow ravine. At the
head of this it was just possible to make out the white
of a fledgling waterfall.
Beyond the wall, scattered amongst the rough
grass and rocks, a large flock of sheep. Within the
wall, fields nearer the farmstead held an assortment of
cattle of various ages and colours. From the yards the
sound of a tractor at work.
I marvelled at the expertise of sun and cloud.
Of all the vista, one, just one field was sun burnished
gold; brighter than a distant field of rape in full
flower.
On the lower, damper slopes the bolls of the
cotton grass bent before a soft welcoming breeze.
Curlews called; high above a pair of buzzards
joyously, cried each to the other as they floated on
their broad brown wings, circling, gaining height, on
the warm air rising.
The clouds now joined ranks, the sun gone as
if switched off. A coolness spread up the valley across
the land. A strengthening gust of wind rocked me on
my feet, fast on its heels, cold blue, driving rain
blurred my vision and the view.
With the storm passed, a fresh view, clear cut
and shining. The sheep mostly lying tucked into the
heather, their backs tight into the side of the hill. The
cattle in their fields standing close, huddled their backs
to the wind.
The crop of rape now a sad, dull ochre. The
cotton grass bolls sodden, heavy, flattened against the
ground. I looked up, the sky an unmoving matt grey.
All around silence, not a sound to be heard.
Mary Buchan
Sun and shadows
Sun and shadow creep across hillsides, sweeping silhouettes and colours form a patchwork of shifting shapes. The old, craggy mountain faces burst into life from their dark, morose, sombre mood to an image of joy, and captivating enchantment.
Laura Sanders
The Peak District
Grey clouds scud and wild winds sweep, over the fells and the peaks,
lambing is in season, as the Herdwicks stand statue-like and bleat.
Soon little black lambs would be jumping merrily around,
and Chiffchaffs and Pheasants, will make their unique sounds.
Shepherds with sheep dogs, check on the sheep.
Slowly the landscape, unfurls from out of its sleep.
Oaks dot the landscape, dry-stone walls patchwork the land.
Meanwhile the farmers deliver lambs with experienced hands.
Rivers and streams flow full from the melt snow,
whilst dippers from out of mossy bank-sides come and go.
By summer the sheep have their wool coats sheared,
whilst climbers visit the Peaks and tourists have appeared.
Boat trips and cruises take place on the lakes,
whilst grassy meadows are cut and hay is then made.
Kestrels hover, while fritillaries visit wildflowers,
rivers tumble over rocks and pebbles, moved by the rain showers.
Red squirrels nibble fallen acorns, scamper then sit,
whilst traditions of the Peak District take place bit by bit.
The calendar year is in full flow,
Lake Windermere and Grassmere is the place to go.
If you like lakes and countryside, it surely is unique,
surely the place one must visit and seek.
Laura Sanders
Monsal Head (Peak District)
by Don Magee
(Note for editor: The author has experienced what this story attempts to deliver. West of the valley, and Monsal trail pass Chesterfield, follow the B6465 and you will find Monsal Head, and yes I sat on the rock overlooking)
‘It brought to my mind youth…. well not so long past but enough that memories slip from view, and mind. So shall I tell you….? Well, better recall those scattered images I have of Monsal Head in the Peak District.’
Edwin Lazeby sipped his early evening whisky, and looked affectionately at Jessica. Comfort between them spread like a warm blanket; they were comfortable in silence, and also conversation, but more importantly they shared a compassion seldom felt, and perhaps seldom recognised between partners, fixed in emotion, but not married.
‘Why images?' she quipped, sliding her fingers through her long auburn hair. ‘Why not a largesse… a short story?’
She left the statement open. She smiled graciously. ‘And will you take me to this idyll, to your youth? And all because you saw a painting, well an acrylic painting. It’s strange how art collects self thoughts….. much like poetry collects feelings.’ She stopped mid sentence, ‘I am not trying to take over your feelings, your sadness for the past… it’s more I would like to share it.’
They both fell silent, whisky glasses in hand, pensive but positive in that strange vacuity that sits between soul mates.
She continued, ’And how many years did you revisit the Peaks?’
‘Oh for several decades….. regular nearly every year; it was a way of reconnecting with my youth. It’s strange how you think you have lost those youthful aspirations, hopes, thoughts, but they swirl back with just a gentle nudge by means of remembered images,’ he grinned at her. ‘Am I boring you?’
‘No’ she intoned, ‘but I want to experience those images.’
He stood, held out his hand to her, and calmly stated, ‘Then tomorrow we will image the Peaks together.’
And thus one humid early September day they walked part of the Monsal trail, sat on the rock above the valley, and felt the peace of togetherness.
Prologue to Images
by Don Magee
The small collection if Image poems reflect the authors visits to the Peak District, in particular ‘Monsal Head’, where sitting in silence he observed the shifting hillside as the sun moved, the mist rolled in, and a silent peace descended. It has been many years but the images prevail.
Image 1 – Nostalgia
High above those folded hills, green
so green with myriad shapes flitting
the tree tops bare shaped, and brown,
for winter with its sharpened teeth
had left softly, reluctant strained;
and now the seeds will grow again
fresh shoots will yester seasons days
cover the earth with tomorrow's bloom,
and all we remember is the slow fade
of memories where once there was the man
sitting on a rock, looking eastwards
hand no longer holding back
such memories of yesterday's youth.
Don Magee
Image 2 – Peak reflections
I saw the sun rise, mellow on the horizon,
and as the morning mist vaporised in trails
of shapeless streams, I heard the voice of reason
sharp and clear. It spoke of futurity, and
a design for living. It spoke crystal tongued
beware of the one dimensional man,
heard the altercative focus of small thoughts.
I smiled, and walked away.
I had other tunes to play, and the dusty
echo of his mind was no more.
Don Magee
Image 3 – Autumns peak thoughts
Autumn became me sitting on the roof
speculative thoughts in a shifting world
that played out the valley slopes below,
with russet wrapped the dying leaves
fluttering the air, wind wafted low;
was there a summer, and did those days
offer sanctuary as heat burgeoned
lassitude, pollen puffed, drifting as
those long forgotten innocent dreams.
Don Magee
Image 4 – Shifting colours, shifting shapes
I have gathered in the flowers
poppy red, and lavender filled
where shoots early the summer grass
as harvest waves of shimmering green;
and in the verdance of those follicled shoots
grazed my soul as ripples in the wind
where swarms the grass of varied hues.
I have seen the passion of the summer day
splashed against the evening sky,
etherised in a violent pageant
of wild colour, placated splendour
of summer shifts, and setting sun
as now garnered the scented fragrance
moving from yesterday's chaos.
Don Magee
My car safely parked; just a few steps to my favourite
vantage point to scan my favourite view. As usual my
eye was drawn to the ancient stone wall as it
wandered across the side of the hill. Occasionally a
square of walls with a gap; used for holding the sheep
for inspection. The wall continued dipping and rising
to the contours until it disappeared from sight at the
edge of what I knew to be a narrow ravine. At the
head of this it was just possible to make out the white
of a fledgling waterfall.
Beyond the wall, scattered amongst the rough
grass and rocks, a large flock of sheep. Within the
wall, fields nearer the farmstead held an assortment of
cattle of various ages and colours. From the yards the
sound of a tractor at work.
I marvelled at the expertise of sun and cloud.
Of all the vista, one, just one field was sun burnished
gold; brighter than a distant field of rape in full
flower.
On the lower, damper slopes the bolls of the
cotton grass bent before a soft welcoming breeze.
Curlews called; high above a pair of buzzards
joyously, cried each to the other as they floated on
their broad brown wings, circling, gaining height, on
the warm air rising.
The clouds now joined ranks, the sun gone as
if switched off. A coolness spread up the valley across
the land. A strengthening gust of wind rocked me on
my feet, fast on its heels, cold blue, driving rain
blurred my vision and the view.
With the storm passed, a fresh view, clear cut
and shining. The sheep mostly lying tucked into the
heather, their backs tight into the side of the hill. The
cattle in their fields standing close, huddled their backs
to the wind.
The crop of rape now a sad, dull ochre. The
cotton grass bolls sodden, heavy, flattened against the
ground. I looked up, the sky an unmoving matt grey.
All around silence, not a sound to be heard.
Mary Buchan
Sun and shadows
Sun and shadow creep across hillsides, sweeping silhouettes and colours form a patchwork of shifting shapes. The old, craggy mountain faces burst into life from their dark, morose, sombre mood to an image of joy, and captivating enchantment.
Laura Sanders
The Peak District
Grey clouds scud and wild winds sweep, over the fells and the peaks,
lambing is in season, as the Herdwicks stand statue-like and bleat.
Soon little black lambs would be jumping merrily around,
and Chiffchaffs and Pheasants, will make their unique sounds.
Shepherds with sheep dogs, check on the sheep.
Slowly the landscape, unfurls from out of its sleep.
Oaks dot the landscape, dry-stone walls patchwork the land.
Meanwhile the farmers deliver lambs with experienced hands.
Rivers and streams flow full from the melt snow,
whilst dippers from out of mossy bank-sides come and go.
By summer the sheep have their wool coats sheared,
whilst climbers visit the Peaks and tourists have appeared.
Boat trips and cruises take place on the lakes,
whilst grassy meadows are cut and hay is then made.
Kestrels hover, while fritillaries visit wildflowers,
rivers tumble over rocks and pebbles, moved by the rain showers.
Red squirrels nibble fallen acorns, scamper then sit,
whilst traditions of the Peak District take place bit by bit.
The calendar year is in full flow,
Lake Windermere and Grassmere is the place to go.
If you like lakes and countryside, it surely is unique,
surely the place one must visit and seek.
Laura Sanders
Monsal Head (Peak District)
by Don Magee
(Note for editor: The author has experienced what this story attempts to deliver. West of the valley, and Monsal trail pass Chesterfield, follow the B6465 and you will find Monsal Head, and yes I sat on the rock overlooking)
‘It brought to my mind youth…. well not so long past but enough that memories slip from view, and mind. So shall I tell you….? Well, better recall those scattered images I have of Monsal Head in the Peak District.’
Edwin Lazeby sipped his early evening whisky, and looked affectionately at Jessica. Comfort between them spread like a warm blanket; they were comfortable in silence, and also conversation, but more importantly they shared a compassion seldom felt, and perhaps seldom recognised between partners, fixed in emotion, but not married.
‘Why images?' she quipped, sliding her fingers through her long auburn hair. ‘Why not a largesse… a short story?’
She left the statement open. She smiled graciously. ‘And will you take me to this idyll, to your youth? And all because you saw a painting, well an acrylic painting. It’s strange how art collects self thoughts….. much like poetry collects feelings.’ She stopped mid sentence, ‘I am not trying to take over your feelings, your sadness for the past… it’s more I would like to share it.’
They both fell silent, whisky glasses in hand, pensive but positive in that strange vacuity that sits between soul mates.
She continued, ’And how many years did you revisit the Peaks?’
‘Oh for several decades….. regular nearly every year; it was a way of reconnecting with my youth. It’s strange how you think you have lost those youthful aspirations, hopes, thoughts, but they swirl back with just a gentle nudge by means of remembered images,’ he grinned at her. ‘Am I boring you?’
‘No’ she intoned, ‘but I want to experience those images.’
He stood, held out his hand to her, and calmly stated, ‘Then tomorrow we will image the Peaks together.’
And thus one humid early September day they walked part of the Monsal trail, sat on the rock above the valley, and felt the peace of togetherness.
Prologue to Images
by Don Magee
The small collection if Image poems reflect the authors visits to the Peak District, in particular ‘Monsal Head’, where sitting in silence he observed the shifting hillside as the sun moved, the mist rolled in, and a silent peace descended. It has been many years but the images prevail.
Image 1 – Nostalgia
High above those folded hills, green
so green with myriad shapes flitting
the tree tops bare shaped, and brown,
for winter with its sharpened teeth
had left softly, reluctant strained;
and now the seeds will grow again
fresh shoots will yester seasons days
cover the earth with tomorrow's bloom,
and all we remember is the slow fade
of memories where once there was the man
sitting on a rock, looking eastwards
hand no longer holding back
such memories of yesterday's youth.
Don Magee
Image 2 – Peak reflections
I saw the sun rise, mellow on the horizon,
and as the morning mist vaporised in trails
of shapeless streams, I heard the voice of reason
sharp and clear. It spoke of futurity, and
a design for living. It spoke crystal tongued
beware of the one dimensional man,
heard the altercative focus of small thoughts.
I smiled, and walked away.
I had other tunes to play, and the dusty
echo of his mind was no more.
Don Magee
Image 3 – Autumns peak thoughts
Autumn became me sitting on the roof
speculative thoughts in a shifting world
that played out the valley slopes below,
with russet wrapped the dying leaves
fluttering the air, wind wafted low;
was there a summer, and did those days
offer sanctuary as heat burgeoned
lassitude, pollen puffed, drifting as
those long forgotten innocent dreams.
Don Magee
Image 4 – Shifting colours, shifting shapes
I have gathered in the flowers
poppy red, and lavender filled
where shoots early the summer grass
as harvest waves of shimmering green;
and in the verdance of those follicled shoots
grazed my soul as ripples in the wind
where swarms the grass of varied hues.
I have seen the passion of the summer day
splashed against the evening sky,
etherised in a violent pageant
of wild colour, placated splendour
of summer shifts, and setting sun
as now garnered the scented fragrance
moving from yesterday's chaos.
Don Magee
March 18, 2024
Minotaur on column by Elaine Peto
www.creativecoverage.co.uk
www.creativecoverage.co.uk
Inside Cnossian
Crazed bull paws and scrapes the dusty ground,
he bellows out the most hideous roaring sound!
Lowers his piercing horns, cries out in hunger,
yearns for youthful flesh, awakens from his slumber.
White albino fur but still a vile, ferocious creature,
breath to melt all flesh, rippling torso, is his feature.
Trapped inside this hell, she tries to evade her ordeal,
tight stomach, heart beat thumps, she tries not to squeal.
He advances, eyes of pink blood and black onyx roll,
gored, her limp body falls, he takes her heart and soul.
Laura Sanders
Minotaur
With the head of a bull, the body of a strong man,
sacrificed to this, you would run as fast as you can!
Inside a dark, dark labyrinth, a long winding maze,
the minotaur snorts and stomps, enjoying his day.
Many youths, he has consumed, in his evil quest,
putting skills and ideas of the young, to the utmost test.
It seems he liked too much the taste, for human flesh,
and sacrificial blood offering, which he enjoyed the best!
No docile bull, sedately munching green, lush grass,
he violently charges, not letting anyone pass!
Trapped in the maze, and unable to navigate out,
he will gore you, toss you, no-one will hear you shout!
Seems hero Theseus, won him with a ball of string game,
he unwound it, so he could return, same way that he came!
With help of lover Ariadne, and his sword, on island of Crete,
the Minotaur in Greek mythology, was stabbed and thus beat!
Laura Sanders
A gentler side
Hi my name is Mino,
I want to tell you a story.
But before I do I must let you know,
you might find it a little gory.
I am half bull, half human,
I have a particular vice.
My favourite food is people,
I’m fed young men as a sacrifice.
I am very strong, live in a maze,
everyone’s scared of me.
But that makes me sad simply because,
that’s not how I want it to be.
I have a much gentler side,
that I cannot really display.
If I try to be friendly to people,
they simply run away.
Wasn’t it obvious that by crossing human and bull,
they would create something most unappealing?
Did they expect it to sit quietly in a corner,
and just stare up at the ceiling?
I want to know what love feels like,
experience feelings and emotion.
Come spend some time with me,
teach me all about devotion.
Don’t worry you’ll be quite safe,
you can trust me, have no fear.
But just in case I get peckish,
perhaps you shouldn’t sit too near!
Garry Davidson
Crazed bull paws and scrapes the dusty ground,
he bellows out the most hideous roaring sound!
Lowers his piercing horns, cries out in hunger,
yearns for youthful flesh, awakens from his slumber.
White albino fur but still a vile, ferocious creature,
breath to melt all flesh, rippling torso, is his feature.
Trapped inside this hell, she tries to evade her ordeal,
tight stomach, heart beat thumps, she tries not to squeal.
He advances, eyes of pink blood and black onyx roll,
gored, her limp body falls, he takes her heart and soul.
Laura Sanders
Minotaur
With the head of a bull, the body of a strong man,
sacrificed to this, you would run as fast as you can!
Inside a dark, dark labyrinth, a long winding maze,
the minotaur snorts and stomps, enjoying his day.
Many youths, he has consumed, in his evil quest,
putting skills and ideas of the young, to the utmost test.
It seems he liked too much the taste, for human flesh,
and sacrificial blood offering, which he enjoyed the best!
No docile bull, sedately munching green, lush grass,
he violently charges, not letting anyone pass!
Trapped in the maze, and unable to navigate out,
he will gore you, toss you, no-one will hear you shout!
Seems hero Theseus, won him with a ball of string game,
he unwound it, so he could return, same way that he came!
With help of lover Ariadne, and his sword, on island of Crete,
the Minotaur in Greek mythology, was stabbed and thus beat!
Laura Sanders
A gentler side
Hi my name is Mino,
I want to tell you a story.
But before I do I must let you know,
you might find it a little gory.
I am half bull, half human,
I have a particular vice.
My favourite food is people,
I’m fed young men as a sacrifice.
I am very strong, live in a maze,
everyone’s scared of me.
But that makes me sad simply because,
that’s not how I want it to be.
I have a much gentler side,
that I cannot really display.
If I try to be friendly to people,
they simply run away.
Wasn’t it obvious that by crossing human and bull,
they would create something most unappealing?
Did they expect it to sit quietly in a corner,
and just stare up at the ceiling?
I want to know what love feels like,
experience feelings and emotion.
Come spend some time with me,
teach me all about devotion.
Don’t worry you’ll be quite safe,
you can trust me, have no fear.
But just in case I get peckish,
perhaps you shouldn’t sit too near!
Garry Davidson
