A few months ago I did a series of creative writing workshops at Greenhill Care Home in Pentrebach, Merthyr Tudful.
I have been wary in the past of the whole idea of art as therapy. The concept of prescribing poetry or painting on the Health Service seemed to limit its appeal, whilst making funding more readily available of course.
It also appeared to narrow creativity into the solely confessional ; the area now occupied by most singer-songwriters to the detriment of their art and , sadly, an increasing number of younger poets who might need to re-read Plath and realise that she made her own pain and suffering universal through imagery.
Poetry is so much more than confessional outpourings and can create the kind of worlds which fiction aspires to, yet through its music and metaphors can summon up the subconscious.
It was with great trepidation that I embarked on these sessions.
The organiser assured me he’d provide all that was needed : pens, journals and a supportive environment.
Looking back, it was one of the most challenging yet fascinating experiences ever.
It’s not as if I was inexperienced regarding Care Homes or, indeed, the problems of dementia ( which some of the participants lived with).
My sister has lived for many years in a Care Home and my brother and I visit quite regularly to take her out in her wheelchair. She tries to paint whenever she can and her room is her studio, full of tubes of acrylic , but her physical problems make it difficult.
I lived with my Gran in Barri when she had Alzheimer’s and witnessed her steady decline. When she was eventually confined to a psychiatric ward it was extremely upsetting.
At Greenhill, it was soon evident that the staff were committed and helpful.
Pens and journals were about as useful as paintbrushes at a football training session!
The first workshop I was floundering because I simply hadn’t prepared myself for it and was fortunate there were several medical students from the Heath present, who could act as scribes.
I had life-writing on my mind as the best form to pursue and only at the end did we gather their many interesting experiences together.
It was the only workshop I did outside in the garden and one man with dementia spoke lucidly about his past, breaking off at the end of a siren or lorry passing to wail ‘Where am I?’ and ‘What am I doing?’ The very sentiments I sometimes screamed internally when teaching.
After this workshop I had a clear idea of what to do.
I knew that group poems would work and I’d act as scribe, capturing their descriptions and memories almost word-for-word and putting them instantly into free verse.
Most sessions took place in their plush cinema room and a few became regular attenders.
It was so exciting to discover their wealth of knowledge and give shape to their creativity.
Here are some of the poems which we wrote together……..
THESE THINGS
Vital tool
Small, adjustable
‘Go and get a left-handed one!’
We’d joke to apprentices.
Nut to a spanner
Like bone to dog –
Always loyal
Dog wags its tail.
As many kinds of dogs
As spanners : taking
Them to Crufts.
Never forgiven if you’re cruel.
Songs of kindness
Through guitar’s vibes,
Bring out memories
Through music and song.
********************************
GESTURES OF LOVE
You cannot pretend
To love someone –
For somebody you love
You’d give them anything.
Freesias for a special person ;
Or one orchid can be enough.
Gestures of smiles, laughter.
Pleasure from giving :
Ring, the eternal circle.
By M., B., D. and C.
OPENING WINDOWS OF MEMORIES
Thinking of Mam
Times of holidays
When she’d be mistaken
For one of the natives –
No longer with me
Void is so huge
But the photo brings back
So many happy memories
Of my Mam in her prime,
Vibrancy in her eyes.
Thinking of the wonderful years
When fruit grew everywhere,
Drinking in the bodega
Sipping the Vino Tinto,
Waiting for the tapas
Tasting the sardinas,
Chatting about golf and wine ,
Swimming after the siesta.
Thinking of Beau
A source of great joy,
Encouragement to walk three times a day,
A wonderful disposition
Never heard him growl,
Only claw the leather chaise longue –
This photo speaks
So many words of delight.
By M., I. & A.
I used objects, photos and smells amongst other things to stimulate their memories.
One man, M, was wheelchair bound and brought along a book full of his poetry from over the years. When we shared important photos he showed us one of his mam at a family holiday in Spain .
I discovered she’d been his only carer and had recently died after a long illness.
While I was there he missed a workshop to attend her funeral, but hadn’t been allowed to read poems about her at the ceremony by another family member , or play the music he wanted to bring back memories of her.
The Home – under its diligent and compassionate manager Mitch ( singer of the Moonbirds) – had actually arranged their own ceremony so he could read those poems and play the songs.
When he read them to us it was very moving.
D. was full of her early days living near Sunderland. She was nearly 100 and had, at 90, flown a plane to celebrate her birthday.
A. was an avid book-reader, who lived for her weekly books from the library and A. was an ex-teacher who had lived in an old farmhouse and engaged deeply with the workshop where they had to think of themselves as buildings.
I became very friendly with B. a highly intelligent former engineer and Mayor of Merthyr. He had never been one for poetry, yet loved talking about his days working in the borough and also his great admiration for Brunel.
It was a great privilege to meet these people and to be able to transform their many interesting memories into poetry.
As the workshops developed we began to suggest improvements to their work and I only hope some were inspired enough to want to carry on writing.
++++++++++++++++
This is a poem I wrote about forming an old-timers’ band with my mates Al, Jazz and Andrew. We performed a mad version of this at the Imp once and even Bobby the Seal’s eyes were boggling………
THE ZIMMER FLAMES
We’re gonna form a band!
There’ll be Al on kazoo
and me on the mouth-harp,
Jazz on his ol’ church organ
and Andrew on heckledrone
(it’s a synthesizer, perfect for disruption).
We’ll be wearing long blonde wigs
look like Edgar and Johnny Winter
and sometimes play instruments
to confuse and entrance
like the wooden, percussive frog.
Our songs will be sung
in voices of the deep South
( yet north of Abercynon),
call ourselves The Zimmer Flames
but not after Bob Dylan.
Our fans will stamp their walking sticks,
yell for kazoo solos
or daring organ-isms,
raise grey, bushy eye-brows
to praise mad amphibious rhythms ;
desert us at 10 pm.
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