Poetry, Writing and Fun on Bardsey 2009 - by Mel Perry

For the writing week, 20th to 26th June, eight of us journeyed across the sound to arrive on Enlli. Five of us were returning from last year and three new people joined us for the first time. For two of them it was their first trip to the island and they were entranced of course. Christine Evans helped us to get going with some poetic-juice stimulating exercises and she was joined later in the week by Chris Kinsey, BBC Wildlife Poet 2008.

We met every morning for a couple of hours to have some starter exercises, and then the days were ours to enjoy and absorb the island, and write Enlli inspired verse. Not only did we write, but we also visited Carole Shearman in Llofft Nant for art and craft sessions. We all made small books on which we could write our poems. An anthology inspired by the 2008 week and prepared for this year is in the library in Cristin.

A "round the island sunset cruise" with Colin on Tuesday provided the stimulus for a group poem and we hope that this can be submitted to the website before too long.

Our week culminated in a reading evening on Friday when we were joined by Carole, BBFO staff and some Trust visitors. We read our favourite pieces, including the group poem and displayed our art and craft materials.

We all had a fantastic time; our laughter could be heard across the island.
Many thanks to Steve, Emma, Connor, Rich B, Rich E, Gwyn, Christine, Chris and Carole for helping it be such a special week.

Next year is booked already and visitors to the BBFO website can look forward to new poems appearing soon.

Ynys Enlli writing week 20-27 June 2009 - Group poem read by Christine Evans on the final evening

Evening Cruise on Benlli III

We climbed the ‘Stairway’ on Benlli III,
‘Heaven’ it will be to sail to the other side.
See tiers of guillemots and
disturb the puffins’ party.

Emerald snakelocks stamped on the slipway,
fears for a safe passage
as we head past Graveyard Point.

Never the most intrepid of sailors,
it occurs to me to wonder,
if anyone has life-saving skills.

Lime-washed guillemots
perched on precipitous grey.

Delight, at last now seeing clearly,
puffin faces,
grey cheeked, eyes, and horny plated beaks
in all their psychedelic glory.
Watching take-off,
noting orange legs and feet.

Skies screeching
with gull grey tic-a-tape.
Where currents draw a
mercurial meniscus in a hackly sea.

Out where the tide
Grabs the island by her hips
And spins us in a giddy trance.

A splash of warm rain
from the font of Mynydd Enlli,
thunderheads forming off Holyhead and Wicklow
and the flash of a lemon-quartz gannet
flying north.

Deep water;
we rev-up through waves that
fret against the tide-race,
skirt around slabs of flat sea
oily with malevolence.
Stuff of legends.

Moon jellyfish –
crinolines washing in Nant’s swell.

Where the pilgrims made their chasmic leap
across the hollows.

Caves of shadow,
rock opening wide arms in welcome,
all along the west.

The engines cut,
the velvet birds flew by
without the slightest hint of sound.

Sheer watery delight – red raw sunset lights the
path of a blue moon.

Time stood still
as the sky unzipped
from the sun radiant sea.

Out beyond our Sunset Boulevard.

To motor back will cost you
three pence per second for the
distance we drift.

The sea took us
into the flexed muscles
of the flood tide.

Twenty thousand saints
give way to forty thousand shearwaters.

Blown by a dark wind
we cannot feel, they rise
fluttering like butterflies
to drift, and lift, and settle,
waiting ….

Sunset shearwaters
rafting, gliding, skimming,
flipping day to night,
yin yang, yang yin,
swapping south for north
north for south, staying
forever summer.

No man o’war here. All is peace, peace, peace.

Over the rim of the world
the moon is pulling, so the harbour
brims and bulges
with clear grey water
as we float in, come back to land.

On return we pause,
stand in silent
awe
beside a gate, sharing
sacred moments.
Crimson fire
blood red sky,
we witness a dying sun.

One hundred and fifty six photographs of the sky
bear witness to my enthusiasm.
At least I’ll not be short of desk-top wallpaper.

Departure Lounge

The roads narrow to a single track,
Hedges gorged with jewel flowers.
Air heady from late summer scents.
Telegraph poles reaching westward
And swallows perch in training.
A time to recharge our psyche
Planned around the phases of the moon.
No ticket required, no passport scrutinised
A full load numbers merely twelve.
Weigh anchor, swing south west.

In Departures children grizzle, crowd queues jostle,
Hemmed in by tight security.
Identity scanned, reduced to the signature in a box.
Dignity stripped, x-rayed for all to view.
A restless ennui pervades.
And so many people fail to connect
That they neither travel nor arrive.

The beach where old friends hug, they kiss, they laugh, they cry.
Hearing the news of this year’s trips.
Let it not be so long before we return.
All share the task of luggage handling
No matter that we heft each others bags.
The boatman’s personal touch of shared jokes.
We journey in real time which slows its pace
As with a final thrust into the island’s cradle.
The crowd is there to greet us, smiles beam
That we bother to travel and arrive.

We climbed the ‘Stairway’ on Benlli III, ‘Heaven’ it will be to sail to the other side. See tiers of guillemots and disturb the puffins’ party.

We climbed the ‘Stairway’ on Benlli III,
‘Heaven’ it will be to sail to the other side.
See tiers of guillemots and
disturb the puffins’ party.