Back in the summer (remember that far back, when the sun shone and everything?), I went on a day papermaking course at Morley College in London. I was drawn to it by the fact we were going to be using natural plant materials, but what I hadn’t expected was that I would fall in love with the little college garden off Waterloo, and especially the plants grown for colour.
It was a taster session rather than a real course, but led by a real expert, Lucy Baxendale. There’s a course starting in June though, you can sign up here – I’m tempted. It was such a joy to go round looking for seeds, plants and textures to use, to feel the gooey mixture (like Blue Peter, prepared earlier for us) give as it turned from plants into paper. Yes, that real pleasure in getting your hands dirty and actually making something.
Here are the scraps I took away with me:
And I had just the poem I knew I wanted to write on the one I made using honesty. Here it is:
My father takes Rupert Brooke’s poems to France, 1945
This knot of honesty I picked today
must have fallen out of my pocket
so you’ll have to believe me when I say
each leaf was thinner than a page
in the book of poems my father
took to war. I like to think
it was the weight behind each word
that kept pushing him to a future
he can’t have dared write himself:
to love and be so loved. Though once
reading nonsense rhymes at bedtime,
he leant so far into that night’s book
I started crying, sensing how
he wanted to topple into it,
just as he must have done once
smelling Brooke’s sweet honeyed tea
above the stench of mud and blood,
this other world he could slip into.