Paul Summers’ Workshop with Year 4 pupils in Kells Lane Primary School
In his role as a writer-in-residence, Paul Summers, author and poet, worked with pupils in Kells Lane Primary School during January 2006. His residency was part of the prize awarded by the Northumbrian Association to Katharyn Church, a pupil there, for being joint winner of the Association’s Young Writers’ Award.
During his residency, the curriculum theme for one class was ‘THE ENVIRONMENT’. Paul was asked to use this as a stimulus but also to promote pupils’ use of figurative language in creative writing. He asked the children to think about their own locality and imagine what they could see, hear and smell. Below lies evidence of the young writers’ success in creating a powerful written image of the area, with Paul’s encouragement and guidance.
Kell’s Lane Cameo
Standing on the corner of Kells Lane in Low Fell, the sky is smudged mascara.
Fat clouds speed towards Saltwell Park.
The weak moon hangs like a falling leaf.
Mucky puddles form hearts near The Vic pub.
A plump pigeon checks out Greggs for stale pasties.
Bully-bird crows spy sickly sparrows.
Bubble gum insects litter the kerb.
A bloke, who looks like James Bond, gets ten notes from the cash point,
A smiling dog lying across his arms.
An old woman scurries for her pension, her face like thunder, blue tinged skin like an unmade bed.
Her eyes are full of anger and life experience smoulders in her black bags like dull, cold ash.
In faultless harmony, a symphony of street sounds, whirlwind vibrations, hurt my ears.
A skinny magpie whistles “The Blaydon Races” in perfect tune.
Slow motion raindrops slap car windscreens.
Petrol rainbows ripple, black water hisses like an adder.
An asthmatic mini pants as it passes the lights.
Old Fred stops the traffic and beat box rhythms explode from his mouth.
Stampedes of twisty kids stagger drunkenly towards Nisa.
Crazy teletubbie - topped toddlers stomp and swim in puddles, faces glowing with crusty clown smiles.
Stern parents scream, cheeks pink as cherries, volcanoes in their stomachs,
Veins popping like lugworms, anger escaping like steam from a train.
Wrestling for power, perfumes knot in head locks, melt into the sewers.
The essence of fish and petrol, melted chocolate and strawberry laces, snake through the cold air.
Valentine hearts at McColls are two for the price of one at Somerfields.
But I am thinking of Subbuteo and Easter eggs.
My head, full of questions, is buzzing like a hive.
Do bald people use shampoo?
Is it okay to sleep through RE?
Can an octopus skip?
Do fish ever cry?
When will I die …?