⌗IWSG February 2019, Drawing and writing.

The question on the Insecure Writer's Support Group this month is

When you are not writing, what other creative outlets do you have ?


When I’m not writing and watching tennis, I like to draw in a notebook. It’s more like coloring actually. Patterns, Mandalas, Landscapes. When I travel, I like to draw what I see out of my window, on a train, from a hotel room. I use pencils. Sometimes I take photos while travelling and then try to reproduce them with a pencil and then paint. Books also inspire me and I paint pictures of the images that have appeared in my mind. I’m not a very good artist so sometimes I need to draw lines to position the elements in my painting. I am messy too.
In my writing my confidence grew by taking courses, giving and receiving feedback. So I suppose my next step in drawing and painting will be to take lessons. In school, I loved to draw maps and color in the different types of landscapes, geological features or natural ressources.
In my writing, I am also inspired by pictures or paintings. Finding the story behind the scenes, or inventing one.
I think all creative activities are inter-connected in some way. They feed each other.


If you would like to sign up to the Insecure Writers Support Group, go to this link :

http://www.insecurewriterssupportgroup.com/p/iwsg-sign-up.html

What I find pleasure in the most is the creative process. Getting my work out into the world is the drag: the competition out there, the disappointments. Discouragement is my worst enemy, perseverance my best friend and positive feedback from fellow writers, again, again and again. But it is just as rewarding to witness the success of others whom you’ve helped to improve.


An example of a sketch. Looking out of the window. B&B Stratford upon Avon. Virginia Lodge. Tim & Kate Wright, 12 Evesham Place.
On A Living Shakespeare Course at the Shakespeare Birthplace Trust. September 2013. Saw Hamlet, All's Well that Ends Well, As You Like It and Candide by Voltaire, adaptation by Mark Ravenhill.

And a painting inspired by Rama II by Arthur C. Clarke. Sorry, my scan is not big enough !

My new blog

https://lifeinpoetry.home.blog/2019/02/03/frost

At the end of the Tunnel.

My heart is a feather. My spirit soars with

new endeavours. Liberated from any trials,

my children comfortably soothed into

their futures.

A second life for me, or a ninth.

Free to pursue the bliss of each day.

No longer encumbered by hefty obligations.

My work is done.

The foundations are sound. The edifice raised

brick by brick will not topple at a mere

gust of wind. We are tethered to weather

a storm.

Nothing short of a cyclone can sweep us 

away. A sound partnership cemented by

love has brought these years of joy.

The worst

of my dismay and dolour are behind.

The thrill is still beneath, graciously

awoken to carry me onwards until

the end.

©susanbauryrouchard

Frost

Crisp white morning. Frost coats the bushes,

the trees. Crunchy grass under foot.

The stars fade into the pale sky while the sun

creeps up over the rooftops. Later blue will

erupt as the beams warm the air. Robin Redbreast

and Master Greentit challenge each other to a crust

in front of the French windows. The chime is still

on the roof beam over the terrace, immobile.

Intricate patterns snake up the gate, ephemeral art

swept by the midday thaw. Droplets glisten on

the leaves of the evergreens. The mercury edges up

and stops, numb.

At teatime the light has ebbed away and the frost

sneaks back over the garden

©susanbauryrouchard

Christmas is over

The Christmas tree is sitting
in the garden. Some needles

shed on the living room floor,

in front of the fire.

The baubles came off reluctantly,

clinging onto the branches.

The Bavarian soldiers still hanging

proudly. The fairies' heads drooping.

All reconciled to their fate of being

stored away in their boxes.

The holiday season is discarded,

but not forgotten, still burning

comfortably in our hearts. Time

to make way for the New Year.

Fresh beginnings. The crocuses

are already snaking up from

the frosty blades. The daffodils 

stems are rising in defiance

of the cold bite. Everyday I watch

the scortching sun pound down

on the players in Australia. It thaws

my bones and frees my spirit. And

the pen runs away with the ink and

soaks the page with thoughts.

©susanbauryrouchard

On the Train

I turn the ticket man
at the station into a sheik.
Surrounded by his wives
and eunuchs, he strolls in
his gardens.

Around the spouting fountains,
dolphins in the waves, lemon
orange and passion fruit enamour
the air with their sweet
scents.

The sheik in his babouche
sits on a stone bench,
launches his hand full
of seeds to the white
doves.

They clatter from the rooftops
down the tropical creeper
onto the dolphins and across
the lawns.

The train’s squeaking and sway
gently rocks my contemplation.
The slow wheels roll on the
rails at a snail pace.

So my sheik keeps me company
on my way across the map.

©susanbauryrouchard

Written in November 2014
from London to Stratford.

We shall never

You will never see the sky again.
We shall not quarrel anymore.
You have set yourself free, left me
behind to experience
the aches of solitude,
and seeing the sun sink
beyond the roofs.
You took up all the room
but it was not your fault.
I cowered, hidden away
in the eaves, grabbing at crumbs.
You would fill the kitchen
with words and I would hurry
out of sight, not wanted,
no place for me.

©susanbauryrouchard