Welcome to Mary V. Williams'
 Inky Digits
the website hosting the
Drayton Writers' Group
Welcome!
We're a group of local writers who are interested in writing in all its forms. Some of us are poets, others write short stories or articles; others have written (and had published) full length fiction and non fiction works. Some of us are absolute beginners, but interested in knowing more. We meet once a month from 10.30 - 12.30 on a Thursday at Raven House, Market Drayton, and we're always open to new members. Phone Mary on 01630 657055 for details.
In the group we read our work and discuss it, and offer one another ideas or constructive criticism. To do this, it's helpful if you can be contacted by email, but it's not essential. We also share news of events, competitions, and who's publishing what, and we have links to other groups in the area.
From time to time we run workshops which anyone can attend. If you would like to know more, or would like to be informed of up-and-coming events, email Mary via the contact form on this site, or phone me (Mary) on 01630 657055. From time to time we hold open mike meetings, which are always fun, and invite guest readers along to read their work. We ask group members to pay £10 for a year (12 meetings) or £2.00 each time they come. This covers our rent and allows us to buy books, pay postage and pay workshop leaders. If all this hasn't put you off, come and join us!
Next Meeting:
July 23rd 10.30 - 12.30, at Raven House.
Carol Power describes the first time she came to the group:
What a night! I hardly slept a wink, owing to the thought of what was in store for me today. Breakfast's definitely off the menu - my stomach's turning somersaults. Oh my God, I need the loo again! One hour later the bedroom looks like a bombsite, due to my uncertainties of what on earth to wear, in the end settling for the first outfit I plucked from the wardrobe.
I arrive at my destination, the building looming large and threatening, waiting to swallow me up. Standing outside, willing myself to go through those doors, my feet are transfixed to the pavement. "Be still, my beating heart!" Voices in my head, whispering "What am I doing here?" interrupted with "Look, if I don't like it, I just won't come again." Now, even louder, "Ah, go on, go on, go on."
The decision's made, I'm going in. There, that wasn't so bad, was it? But that nagging little voice pops up again. "Remember, if you don't like it, you can always leave." My thoughts are interrupted by a friendly voice.
"Hello. Are you looking for the Writing Group?"
"Yes," I reply.
"Come over and join us in the cafe," says the kind lady. All my anxieties melt away as I step forward in hopeful anticipation of challenging, positive and new experiences.
Phew! What a brave piece of writing from Carol.
June 28th - OPEN MIKE DAY
Despite the day being very hot and sultry, the afternoon went very well, with folk coming from Hanley, Stoke, Newport and Shrewsbury to read, and it was very cheering to see several old friends and past members once again. We got through the heat with the aid of a few cold beers and willing bar staff (Mr W) and felt pleased at the end of the day that everyone appeared to have enjoyed themselves. Drayton Writers who read their work were: Catherine Westwood, George Highmore, Eileen Cornes, Lynn Ashburner, Bert Molsom, Mary Williams, Sam Hatton and Catherine Simpson. Among the external readers were Mike Willmott from SWAP (Shropshire Writers and Poets), Fiona Smith from Wrekin Writers, Greg and Jean Gregory from The Drayton Round, Andrea Yates; Paul Williamson, Margaret Farn, Peter Salt and Steve Emmanuel from City Voices in Hanley; Bill Millner, from Keele Poets and Les Lacey, a local writer. Pam Highmore also read a poem, having sneaked in with Drayton Writer husband George. Please, if you're reading this and I've left your name off, do let me know!
We hope to have some pictures of the event up on the website soon, so keep watching!
DEEP WATER
Wading was fine. She glanced down now and then
seeing her alien toes blanched like dead sea creatures
splayed out along the sand.
Pale cloudy green as river water, the tide surged at her feet
and she advanced over the ridged runnels slowly,
a rope’s throw from the shore.
Deeper, the water did its work, fingering her gasping chest
as she tiptoed forward, expectantly
into the grey-green shadowy depths.
Dark fish-arrows skated under her, shooting the gloom,
and she scrabbled, missing a landing place
and floundered, out of her depth.
Came the fish-belly fear, gill-lack; frantic panic, and she
chopped up the water with both flailing arms;
making for shore,
miss-stepping on sharp stones, up the beach, up,
looking over her shoulder to see what followed
trailing its fishy tail, blood calling blood
along her girlhood’s shoreline, all her days.
Mary Williams, published in The Salopeot
Andrew Harrison, who is well known as a local poet and singer, gives us this beautiful poem:
Such a Love.
Here, all in the womb-blind closeness of the earth,
Apparent absence of life
Does not mean that only death is present.
Underground, an embryo stirs without a sound
Then kicks and heaves against the weight of dark and stone.
The seedskin tears and opens like an eye.
Out of sight.
No thing to see. Alone.
No help to understand the plight of why,
Of how and what to be.
No thing to hear except the call of gravity and sky.
No thing to do but search and fight
For air and space, then reach for light.
And when that light is found
A flower bud then opens like another eye.
He greets the sun, bows to the breeze
And nods as if he understands the things he sees.
The whole wide world might fill his nodding head.
He even dances to the music of the lark
Yet still he listens to the pressing dark that lies within.
It fills with dread the hidden cells of memory.
It marks him with its blind embrace and holds him tethered to the past.
He was promised love, so he never tells his truth
While, far above,
Under a drifting, bruise-grey clouded brow,
Sol squints then stares.
having swept the sky with tears of rain
Sol ponders, thinking as a father might;
Why and how the gift of thought
Has brought the land he kissed to such a state.
Who cares? A choice was made. A chance is missed.
But plans we laid when first we blinked,
Are linked, it seems, to scripted armadillo dreams:
In lairs too deep for half-remembered light.
Who dares to wake and find himself unloved?
Who dares to waken from his dream alone?
Come on! Break the trance.
Forget the dark and risk a second chance.
Join the dance and dare to love this world and all you find
With all your heart and with all your mind
Even though your lonely soul has just one small word
For such a love.
Andrew D. Harrison, November 2006 
If you have any enquiries or would like further information on any of our publications please feel free to Contact Me
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