Writing Competition Runner-Up: Bob Woodroofe

There have been all sorts of influences that led to the poem ‘Chettywynde’.

"I’ve walked plenty of paths and explored lots of different ways on the journey through life itself and my own personal one. I suppose it all started when my life was derailed by divorce.
At the time my then teenage daughter gave me a copy of Robert Frost’s poem ‘The road not taken’ which was very astute of her. My poem’s title, although it’s Anglo Saxon, I found in ‘Songlines’, Bruce Chatwin’s book about the Aboriginal dream time. Kim Taplin’s ‘The English Path’ is full of a host of references to the way that people have looked at the ‘path’. The literature is littered with the phrase ‘Solvitur ambulando’ translated it means ‘Work it out by walking’ which sums it up nicely. The poem I submitted is only the current version, one of several that have been created and developed over time. A previous version was slanted towards what many perceive as the right way, the pursuit of monetary wealth, and my subsequent abandonment of that in search of an existence closer to the land and to nature. The road less travelled you might say. No doubt there are others versions still to come."

Bob was runner-up in the Wild Words Summer Solstice Writing Competition, in 2016. This is his poem. 

Chettywynde*

Words are but steps on the page,
just one begins a lifetime’s journey.
Press your pen to the paper, let it flow
on till you reach the end of the line.

A single step, press your sole
to the ground, raise it, lower it,
again, again, feel the earth,
the blade of grass, grain of soil.

Listen to your heart’s beat
let your feet follow the scent,
track the spoor that leads ahead.
Mark your steps in the morning dew.

Be scared, feel the adrenalin rush.
That pulse of energy from the earth,
wild river in flood, forest fire raging.
Take the chance, run, run for your life.

Yes, you will stumble, down you will fall.
Heed the path’s call, haul yourself up,
brush off the dirt, ignore the hurt,
struggle on, even if you have to crawl.

Against the flow, the way you want,
stride out, keep on along the trail
The faint track, the winding path,
not hollowed by the feet of time.

Take time to stop and stare,
explore, ramble where you will.
See the sun rise, watch it set,
When weary, rest, then travel on.

Go walkabout, follow your dream,
lose yourself, then find your way.
Till you find that place, your home,
peace, at the end of the road.

Sense when the end is in sight,
when the journey is finally done.
Then the words no longer flow
and the poem of life is over.

*Anglo Saxon for the winding path

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Mushrooming Words

We head into the dark centre of the forest, where even the intense sunlight of Southern France can only sometimes penetrate, freckling the ground.

The tall, skinny pines wave wildly in the wind. Underfoot is a spongy layer of pines cones, decaying leaves and the bristling shells of last year’s chestnuts. Everything is mud brown, except the swathes of green ferns that fill the clean mountain air with a smell like freshly cut grass.

To find the small, early season Girolle mushrooms, I will have to learn how to really SEE. The more I can see, the better I will write. I clamber over fallen tree trunks. Creepers lasso my feet. The ferns give way under me and I sink into the swamp. The pine branches that I grab for are hollow, and break off in my grazed hands. There’s an area of newly crushed ferns the size of a large pig. The Sanglier (wild boar), have been there.

There is no sun to steer by now and I am disorientated. It’s difficult to scan the ground and stay in touch with my companions at the same time. I lose sight of them, and the sound of them fades away too.

Fear spikes me. Then I hear the screeching, the rasping of wild creatures.

The fear is terrible for a moment, but there is no-where to run to, so I just stay put. I listen to the sounds, increasingly awe-filled.

After a time something shifts, and I realise I’m doing what I went there to do. The wildness is no longer ‘out there’. I’m no longer pushing it away. And what I’ve experienced I will be able to express later in words. A human call rescues me, reassures me. Apparently the noises are just the stems of trees rubbing against each other in the wind. I’m almost disappointed. Back to the treasure hunt.

Several times in the next three hours I trumpet with joy one minute, only to deflate the next.

I find a mushroom whose stem excretes milk. There’s another one that under its fleshy umbrella is flecked with red, like spilt wine. But both of these are dangerous, not to be touched.

Then, at last I spy Girolles, their sandy yellow canopies blossoming out of the moss. And the elation answers all the fears. When I eat one it tastes, surprisingly, of pepper. I take the harvest home with me, and later, the vivid experience of the day works its way through me and out, weaving itself into words.

A Writer's Process: Riham Adly

It’s not an easy thing, writing in English in a country like Egypt.

The urge to write started when daddy got sick with stage 3 pancreatic cancer. The urge to read started when daddy passed away. I was living in Dubai. The tragedy forced my family to return to Egypt, my supposed home.

The cultural shock was massive. It was hard adapting to the pollution, the incessant car horns, and a purely judgmental society, which doesn’t welcome anyone veering off the stereotype. It’s been 20 years now since I came back, so has anything changed? I’ve been through two revolutions. Presidents ousted and presidents elected. Did things get any better?

I decided not to ask myself this question and instead throw my mad jumble of passion and fear into writing. I had a setback for some years when I started dental school; I had tried to fit in, by hiding what I really loved because it was looked down on and considered silly. To write stories is to be silly.

It took me another 4 years to start writing again after graduation. I attended a writing class in Cairo, and for once I didn’t feel like an alien.

I let the words flow, and got to know my muse. She was wild, unkempt in her ways and even a bit sly.

She got carried away sometimes trespassing into restricted zones. I had to keep her in check, every once in a while. I had a young adult manuscript ready. I asked my creative writing instructor to provide feedback and edit. She agreed to do it for a fee, which was fair enough, and after weeks of  being milked dry, and spending hundreds of  Egyptian pounds, I was told that my work was rubbish and not worth wasting time on.

My writer friends call me Rose, friends I got to know through winning the “MAKAN AWARD” local writing contest in Egypt. Roses are a symbol of love, and sensuality, but also a reminder of change. A bud blooms beautifully, only to lose its petals and shrivel into the earth. Its scent meanders through memory like the sweet surmise of a soliloquy spoken in the darkest of silences.

Today after years of struggling with life’s duties and heart’s desires, I proudly host my own book club in Cairo.

I’ve managed to publish more short stories online and a short story collection is on the way.

Roses are my companions. I buy a bouquet every week, to grace the ornate vase on my vintage writing desk, also adorned with painted roses. I jot down ideas in floral notebooks, and seek inspiration from a Kashmiri floral tapestry hung on my sky-blue walls. I can’t have a private garden here in Cairo, but only I can control my present and my future. 

I must travel long to find my true self and true voice, but it’s worth every tear-stained moment, and every crippling bend in the road.