'History' by John Burnside and my response

One of the things that I've been doing for the last year when I haven't been blogging is teaching creative writing to a group of adults.  It's a WEA course I used to attend as a student.  When the tutor retired last year, I agreed to take over.  I felt a bit of a fraud, to be honest, as though I've been teaching writing all of my adult life to secondary school children, my own attempts at creative writing are pretty poor especially when compared with the previous tutor who has had work published in local magazines and plays performed in local theatres. Nevertheless, I took on the job as there was no one else keen at the time and I wanted the group to continue.  It's been quite a challenge but has been generally enjoyable.

The last course finished in March, but I'm keeping in touch with some of the group and suggesting some writing exercises we can do in lockdown.  Last week I shared the poem 'History' John Burnside which is actually one I teach on the 'A' Level course.  It's an interesting poem exploring all sorts of ideas about our relationship with the natural world and our reaction to world events at a personal level.  It was written in September 2001, i.e directly after the 9/11 bombings.  The speaker is on the beach with his family, including his toddler Lucas, flying a kite.  He is full of 'muffled dread' about the future and the poem tracks his reaction and thoughts in a kind of stream of consciousness.  He notices how his son is absorbed in the present moment, looking at the rock pools and 'puzzled by the pattern on a shell'.  The poet's message is not entirely clear but he seems to be suggesting that focussing on the moment and perhaps the beauty of the natural world as the child does is a way of responding to the chaos of the wider world.

This is the task I set the group:
Find something from the natural world in your home or garden, if you have access to it.  A flower, house plant, snail.  Look at it really closely, touch it, smell it. Use all your senses.  Then write a poem or a piece of prose based on the experience.

Here is my own brief attempt at a response.

Keeping Orchids

Someone has beheaded my precious orchid.  It sits on the window sill halfway up the stairs in a perfect spot - light but out of direct sunlight.  I have nurtured this orchid - an unpromising tangle of grey roots and dusty green leaves has been coaxed into flower again with a magic spray.  Fat buds are swelling from stems which have now sprawled in all directions, escaping garden centre's plastic confines.The flowers are pure perfection and last for ages with just the right amount of water.  Not to much, let it drain, never let them sit in water - I have learnt through my past mistakes 

But now one perfect blossom lies on the window sill, cut off in its prime by some careless curtain pulling. 

I cradle it in my hand and then place it a crystal liqueur glass, a wedding present never used in 34 years, but a perfect vase for my orchid.  I don't expect it to last.

One week later it is still nearly perfect.   There are five petals,  each white with intricate violet veining,  miniature trees with branches and twigs reaching upwards.  I touch the petals gently: they are surprisingly tough, yet soft and cool as cotton sheets. The two front petals are perfectly symmetrical and shaped like an artist's palette tipped with purple ink spreading in rivulets outwards.  Underneath these, three leaf shaped petals, similarly veined.  In the centre, a white column and three more smaller petals, tinged with yellow, surround what looks like a tiny insect.  The base petal protrudes and is tipped by a triangle and what look like tiny purple whiskers or an extravagant curled moustache. 

 A perfect orchid blossom. An unexpected gift, for I have stared at this beheaded bloom more intensely than those remaining on the plant.

I've done what John Burnside suggests in the poem and concentrated on my orchid and how beautiful it is.  But now it's 5 o'clock and time for the daily update so I'll leave it there...