IT’S

ANOTHER TYPE OF LIFE

NOW

Creative writing by patients (and staff) of

The Renal Ward

Ysbyty Maelor Hospital, Wrexham

www.artsconnection.org.uk

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‘When you have something special to do here,

It makes it your time, rather than a chore,

Time away from everything else.’

Be thankful for each day, Whatever comes your way!

‘We have a good laugh here.’

‘Mae salwch yn agor drysau gwahanol …’ ‘Illness opens different doors’

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Contents

Anne’s Acrostics: Dialysis Thankful Poppy

Looking at a fossil: The Sea Mouse Fossil Snail Lucky People

I couldn’t write a poem for love nor money Fossil

From the Window Poppies Sleep Motorcycle Sidecar Racing The Shortest Poems in the World The Caergwrle Bowl Poems in response to artwork: The Stormy Village Tudor’s Hare Swallows

For Bruce A Day on the Farm A Jug Poppies

Flowers for Mrs Gertie July Heatwave A Grand Rescue A Precious Piece of Family History

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Anne’s Acrostics Dialysis Death-defying Important Alert attention Life giving, loving care Yes! It’s good Snoozing for hours In my chair, in control Seeing my new friends. Thankful Talking Hearing Always Noticing Kindly Friendship Understanding Lovingly caring Poppy Passing through time Over the years Petals of red and Pink Yesterdays remembered.

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Looking at a Fossil The Sea Mouse By Bill It’s a funny thing - I don’t know if I can describe it: It’s like a little sea-monster Thorns around his head, around the back of his head. If they were bigger they’d be a way of defending himself They would terrorise the beaches! It’s buttermilk, like the walls here, Little wings - only the one Going round in circles A little head, a couple of ears: Like a little mouse A sea mouse.

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Fossil Snail By Tony (With one line from Ivor) There’s a little creature in the middle Comes from the ground, comes from his mother. It seems like it’s secure It keeps itself safe, it keeps itself warm. It’s very laid back It’s the natural colour of stone Markings circle round like tyre marks It’s a fossil trilobite I’ve had a good write – I’m not thinking right At the moment It’s a snail fossil, it’s a fossil snail. Lucky People By Gordon From the ancient times, A million years ago, From a beach somewhere. After a storm, when the tide goes right out…. We walked right out …. The archaeologists were there too, I never found anything, But I know it’s out there somewhere. The lucky people are always the lucky people You’ll always find something.

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I couldn’t write a poem for love nor money By Jill, Johanna and Joyce I couldn’t write a poem for love nor money, But we have a good laugh here, Everything’s coming back to life. It’s springtime My favourite time of year Bright colours - the springtime I think it’s beautiful I hear the sea, the waves I see Llandudno beach I collect shells from the beach and from Conwy, from the shell shop I’ve always done it since I was a little kid Pretty ones with pearl inside, Some of the pearl is really shiny It’s nice and smooth, Brown and white, beige, black on the end It’s got three little dots ...one … two ... three … From the inside they look like windows, Poor little thing - Ah, bless it!

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Fossil (For Sian) By Fiona Spiraling, circling, Year on year, Turning through seasons, endless seasons Spinning the skein of time. How many centuries did it take To fix this soft shape in the stone? How much time has gone by Since this shadow was settled? A soft sentient sea-creature lived out its life, Followed its path from beginning to end. Year on year, through the seasons, Spinning the skein of time. The sea has held it, kept it, preserved, it, Handed it back to us, sent us a sign. Can we read it, hear it, listen with open hearts? Or will its message fade and decline?

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From the Window By Anne From the window Straight and tall See the trees as they blow in the wind, Watching over the people below, Living their lives with little thought Year by year the seasons change Pointing the way to winter - ugh! Poppies By Anne Delicate strokes of the painter’s brush Copy the petals and leaves Showing the dainty poppies Dancing on the breeze. Sleep By Staff members Being awake when you feel you should be sleeping … I can’t sit down for five minutes without falling asleep, Your body clock is all over the shop! Z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z

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Motorcycle sidecar racing By Dave I had a bike before I had a licence to go on public roads. There was a big factory near where we lived, with private roads - I used to ride there. My mother went mad when I brought a bike home. She said: ‘You’re not riding one of those.’ I said, ‘I am.’ My dad never rode one. He rode a pushbike. But me, anything with an engine, I was happy with. I started racing late. I didn’t start til after my National Service - I was in armoured cars, ‘little tanks’. We started with pot hunting: that’s going for trophies. Then we went on the grass and earned a lot of money. I never rode solo on the track: it wasn’t my thing. Solos are dangerous because you keep falling off them. The sidecar men think it’s more skilful their way. The solos don’t. You had two parts to the paddock: the solos and the sidecars. The sidecars were classed as ne’er-do-wells. I started in the sidecar, and my rider and I had a few years together, then we had a row and so I started riding myself. I had to find a passenger so one of my friends said, ‘I’d do it’. I carried on racing. The wife never stopped me. I bought her a camera and she used to film us. She

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joined in eventually! It went along until my passenger went off to newer climes and I was looking round for another, and my wife said, ‘I’d do it!’ So I was showing her how you have to get out on bends: you’ve got to get that side for left-handers, the other for right-handers, and on the straight you crouch right down. If you’ve just got a bike and a sidecar you get a lot of wind resistance, so you have to have fairings. All the driver’s got to do is change gear and aim it in the right direction. The passenger has to keep it down. The passenger does more. When she was riding there were only three women involved, that was it. When you start off, you’re looking for trophies, but once you’re semi-pro, you ride for the money. On the grass we won everywhere, we won everything - won enough to build a new outfit, that’s a bike with a sidecar. We’d go to a Sunday race meeting with nothing in our pockets and come home with loads of money in our pockets. I’d have another one tomorrow, I would.

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The Shortest Poems in the World By David & Dave

FLEAS

Adam Had’em

DIET Slim Jim

DIALYSIS Dud Blood

SUITABLE ANSWER FOR A FIVE YEAR OLD ASKING ‘WHERE DO BABIES COME FROM?’

Mum’s Tum

HEALTHY EATING Berries ‘n’ Cherries

PRETTY POT PLANT Busy Lizzie

VIRTUALLY THE ONLY KIND OF MOTORCYCLE DAVE HAS NEVER OWNED

Trike Bike

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The Caergwrle Bowl By Ralph The Caergwrle Bowl was found in Hope Hall Farm, behind Hope Church. The farm belonged to people called Bowmans. My auntie and uncle had it after them. They had a meteorite come down there when I was young. It burnt all the field, and blew the television, my auntie’s television, when it came down. She lived there … but it was the Bowmans that were there when the Bowl was found. There’s a picture of it in the Halfway House. But the Bowl itself is in Cardiff, and the table from the Hall is in York. There was a monastery at Hope Hall. There’s a field there, The Chicory, where they’ve found footings. They knew there’d been another building there. The original Hope Hall, all the bricks were made on site: they’ve got Hope Hall printed on them. Some of the walls are that old they’re stone with brick on top. The people from Plas Teg, they built the children’s wing onto Hope Church. If you look at Hope Church, there are mill wheels built into the wall, two of them. I don’t know how they got there, but there are others in the woods. You can see the marks on them, from where they were sharpening their swords. The Packhorse Bridge has a ghost lady at the end of the bridge.

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Poems in Response to Works of Art The Stormy Village By Dylan You see the sky, the waiting storm, Trees sway here, Walking past the forest, Along the old track. The end? No, you see two village-like houses Down by the pond, A church, a graveyard, So many memories. Look up. The mountain you walked down. The fields .. you wonder Where are the sheep? The wind picks up. The trees sway more. Looking out at the rippling pond, Its only company … A rock. A small village, a quiet village. Walking past the forest, The storm starts.

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Tudor’s Hare By Fiona She’s a leaper of hedges, an eater of corn, A sign of the season, on midsummer morning. Long grey-brown ears are twitching with life, All-seeing eyes watch him, looking at her. Will she jump from the sketchbook, Bound past the beds, High-tail it out of here, Set herself free? Or will she settle in Tudor’s sketchbook, Watching him working, Creating drawings of wildlife, So welcome and clear? Swallows By Tudor I’ll see if I can get this started. I look forward to them every year. I’m funny as far as swallows are concerned, And the swifts. I love them. They’ve been late this year. I’ll tell you everything. What I see I can portray With ease. Don’t ever tell me that’s easy.

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Bruce’s Picture By Fiona Where are you flowing, river of bright blue? Where are you going, wind in the tree? I wish I could follow, go down through the hollow Climb that first round hill, breathe in my fill Of the fresh air, the clear air, which limns the horizon, Which opens the vista, to show the way clear. I’d follow the artist, Draw on his vision, Let his imagination take me away. The mind holds the key which opens any door: It lets us run for miles, while our bodies stay so still, It shows us sights of wonder that we have never seen It paints scenes of beauty, where we have never been. So open your mind’s eye, And see what’s inside. Pick up pencil, or paintbrush, And set what you see down on the paper, Bring it into this ‘real’ world of dials and switches, Make a connection. Set imagination free.

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A Day on the Farm By Ralph, Lorraine, Ron & Ann With Tracy & Sharon (staff) Where are the animals and humans? There should be a cow in the farmyard. There are no pigs, no animals, no pets …. You eat everything on the farm, rear them to eat. Houses, lovely houses … the lane to the house … The hills and the mountains at the back of the houses. A blue Dexter tractor and the pig arcs exactly the same as that. The apple trees in the orchard. The farmer’s gone to market, There are no shops. His wife is making the tea in the house, The farmhouse: it stands out from all the other buildings.

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A Jug By Dave A jug with flowers, two red ones. Its got flowers on the side of the jug. Blue, red one in there somewhere. Dark blue handle. Is it leaking? Could be leaking. I’m not certain. I could paint a picture like this. I used to put little drawings on the bottom of the letter, all sorts, When I would write to the wife - well, the girl friend she was then. Lilac. Do you get it that dark? We’ve got some white. It’s blocking my view. It’s rose time at the moment, We’ve got plenty of roses, Two of them have gone back to briar roses, they’re covered. I like them. I do. I do.

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Poppies By Sian Silently, swirling, spiraling A crimson cascade Delicate fragile flowers Blood red poppies Each petal a life Falling as we remember Sea of sacrifice forming Bright red vivid carpet No sound In silence, Settling Each petal a life Falling as we remember Ordinary people Extraordinary lives Dad, Mum, Father, Mother, Son, Daughter, Sister, Brother, Husband, Wife, Sweetheart, Lover, Friend and Foe Descending

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Each petal a life Falling as we remember Tears drop on tissue like petals Scarlet stain is what remains Painful goodbyes, grief Sadness Each petal a life Falling as we remember Pride, Bravery, Strength, Courage Symbol of sacrifice Of loss and pain Blood red poppies Remind us As stark vermilion cuts across The dark, grey November sky Each petal a life Falling as we remember

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Flowers for Mrs. Gertie By Lynne The flowers are on the windowsill of Mrs Gertie’s lover’s house. They are her love favour to him. The flower jug is in his lodgings. He puts the flowers in the window when he’s out doing a bit of smuggling. When they aren’t there, she can come around. Mrs Gertie is a big brash lady with loads of children: she is very protective of them. She’s a huge woman: she’s been there, done that - she owns an inn, she sells contraband, knows all the sailors, even the soldiers. Did she have a husband that she used to bash about, boss about? She liked narcissus because of her first true love. The narcissi grew in their secret place. He was on the run and they caught up with him there, when he was with her. He was taken and hung for his crimes. She was imprisoned for harbouring a known outlaw. While she was in prison she was violated. Because of that she became a lady of the night. She won a golden garter in a card game. She bought a tavern and named it The Golden Garter - a place with tiny snug bays with big chairs. Her lover now is Irish, a bit of a rogue. He doesn’t like being in the company of the police. Everyone puts their purses away when he’s around. He owes Mrs

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Gertie for something. He’s got red hair - that’s why he stands out, why he’s learnt to box. People go for him, because he’s got red hair. He has been chucked out of Ireland – nobody knows why. He drinks too much. He was a soldier … perhaps that’s why he left Ireland. He’s a bare-knuckle fighter and he gives Gertie his prize money for his lodgings. He wouldn’t let anything happen to her, if she were in trouble. He would give his life to protect her.

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July 2013: Heatwave Different views, by many contributors You don’t know how to take it: One time is warm, one time is cold I love the winters because I can breathe better: The air is different and cool. Hot and humid, bright and sunny It’s too flaming hot! It feels thirty degrees in the shade - barbeque time! The sun is glorious, bright and hot! It makes you feel glorious. It’s lovely and sunny with a slight breeze. The freshly-cut grass smells lovely, Iridescent butterflies glisten in the sun. Early morning mists Promise the day will be fine, Lifting the mood for the rest of the day Which ends with a cool glass of wine!

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A Grand Rescue By Ron Ron’s Taid was a collier in Coedpoeth: he knew the whole area, knew how to get up and down the pits and keep out of trouble. One day he was walking on the moor and he heard a dog whining. It sounded far away and it sounded desperate. He worked out it was underground somewhere and he looked down an old well and sure enough he could hear the dog at the bottom. He didn’t know how long it had been there but he was determined it wasn’t going to be there much longer. So he went and got a few friends and a good long piece of rope and brought them back on the tops there, to where the dog was trapped. They let him down the well on the rope and he went right down to the bottom and got the dog under his arm. It was a big dog, a collie, and even though it was weak from being down there it was still heavy. Somehow he got back up out of the well with the dog under his arm and his mates all heaving on the rope. They looked the dog over and gave it some water and food for it was starving. My Taid knew well enough whose dog it was, and that dog had just been dropped down into the well and left to die. So he made his way off in a fierce fit to the

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pub, because that’s where he knew the fellow would be. He went in and confronted him: everyone fell silent and listened to the story and my Taid ended up by saying, ‘If I ever hear of you having a dog again I’ll come round and drop you down that well myself.’ Then he turned on his heel and walked out and everyone was cheering him. Well, that fellow didn’t dare have another dog after that, because everyone knew how he’d treated that one. The RSPCA got to hear of it, and they sent my Taid a certificate and a letter of thanks for rescuing the dog and we’ve still got the both of them.

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A Precious Piece of Family History By Sian A precious piece of family history hidden between the pages of an old recipe book. A treasure preserved beautifully for almost a century. Private James Bowler, serving in the trenches during World War One, sent a postcard to his sweetheart Miss Olive Holmes. The message written in copperplate handwriting is brief, dated the 6th of May 1915: Dearest Olive, Letter following, Jim No sentimental sweet nothings there, but the beauty of the postcard leaves no doubt of his love for his sweetheart. It is a beautifully hand embroidered postcard with a small bird, a Swift or a Swallow perhaps, carrying a flower in its beak in the left hand corner. The words carefully and intricately crafted across the card read: ‘Maria Delassus’. A pink rose held in an outstretched hand sends a clear message of love. The postcards were very popular during World War 1. Frenchwomen would embroider designs on muslin. The designs were then sent to factories and set onto cards. There were various themes such as family,

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liberty, unity, remembrance and of course love. The postcard made by Maria Delassus remains immaculate. Remarkable when you consider when and from where it was sent. How wonderful to receive such a gift. How wonderful too that this treasured family postcard was found, and that this moment in time was not lost forever. Jim and Olive went on to marry, and almost a century later their great granddaughter is engaged to be married to her sweetheart, a serving soldier who has recently returned from a tour of duty in Afghanistan. Skype, emails, texts and phone calls are modern ways of keeping in touch. The speed of communicating with family and loved ones has changed considerably, but as Jim and Olive’s great granddaughter welcomes home her fiancé in his desert combats, laden heavily with body armour, we are reminded of the sacrifices being made by a new generation. Their families and loved ones continue their day-to-day lives, waiting anxiously whilst they are apart. Crossing off each day until they return home safely. The building excitement of a homecoming and the relief and joy when that day finally arrives. Sadly, for far too many, this does not happen. A new generation of brave and courageous men and women pay the ultimate price on our behalf.

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Jim and Olive’s granddaughter and her fiancé’s mother attended a medal giving ceremony. They watched proudly as their loved one, and many other young men and women, received their medals following their tour of duty. The Poppy reminds us all of the sacrifices made by others on our behalf in the past and in the present. The postcard belongs to the family of James Ivor Bowler who works in the Renal Unit in Wrexham. Ivor is the grandson of Private James Bowler. This precious family postcard can now be passed on to Ivor's children, next generation of the Bowler family. Ivor’s daughter and her fiancé are due to marry in 2014, one hundred years since the outbreak of World War One. An ordinary family making extraordinary sacrifices in the past and in the present day. Finally.... What of Maria Delassus who created the exquisite postcard with such pride and care? Another life .... another story ... another tale we should not forget. Many thanks to Ivor for sharing his story.