Isle of Wight "Write Away" workshops

 Philip Gross, Louise Hudson and Jane Draycott.


"Write Away" is part of an established series of writing weekends on the Isle of Wight. For the summer 2000 "Write Away" proposed to focus entirely on poetry, allowing keen young writers from Years 7 and 8 to work with poets Phillip Gross, Louise Hudson and Jane Draycott intensively for two days. The purpose was to explore new techniques and structures and to take risks with their writing, providing a rare opportunity to write without interruption in a quiet space. Young writers were encouraged to work on their own, away from other prople, in a way which is not always possible in a school environment. At the conclusion they published an anthology called The Spaces In Between.



Emma Beck, Natalie Squires & Jenna O'Connell

I regret

to say

I have eaten

your daughter.


I understand

you loved her

but she was

conveniently passing.


Forgive me

she was

such a sweet child

much love Wolfie.  


Maria Holden, Archbishop King Catholic Middle School
The Last of the Weavers

I weave blue for water

I weave rainbow for flowers

I weave brown for wood.

I am the last.

My colours will no longer be seen.

I weave grey for stone

I weave love for life

I weave despair for anger.

When I die no one

will have warm, woven clothes.

No one will see

bright colours like me; no one

will understand the weaver's life.

Without me the world will be cold.


Found Sounds

Thunder rolls like hunger,

rooks caw,

doors creak and close.

Silence hums.

Everyone rustles.

Blackbirds break

the silence of the downs.

Someone tries to hide

a wide yawn,

like a letter opening, folding.

Barrels of contraband

rum roll

in the basement.

Held breath.

Silence infiltrates

the cracks

between the sounds.


- A Saturday morning group poem from the May Workshop

Holly Keats, Nodehill Middle School
The Pond

Silent water mirrors the world

Needle-like damsel flies

balance on the trumpets of the lily flowers.

Shadows delicately sleep on the bottom of the pond.

Water lilies wake from their winter siesta,

reaching for the hazy plane trailed sky.

The summer splashed pond ripples with life.







Young Poets Network