Cwrtnewydd Scribblers Writer's Group

Creating worlds with words.

Brenda Old

Brenda has been writing creatively for about ten years. As well as Cwrtnewydd Scribblers she is a member of the Lampeter Writers Workshop and  Teifi Writers. Cwrtnewydd Scribblers being the one nearest home. Brenda says

'When Kathy Miles of L.W.W. asked me if I would read some of my poems at the  Lampeter Festival I had only been a member of the group for less than 2 years and it was a moment I will never forget. I felt that I was now a recognised poet. But I still have a lot to learn.'

Her other interests include making home made wine, spinning and peg looming. She learnt to spin about 15 years ago and now spins every day. She used to live on a smallholding with her husband and  the five bottle lambs that she was given grew into 42 sheep. It was the eldest of my her daughters who suggested that she might like to learn to spin. The idea of making her own wool appealed.  It took a weekend to learn the craft and after 15 years she is still, hopefully, perfecting it.

Now she lives in a small cottage that really is not big enough to swing a cat in.

As well as two daughters and their partners, she has two grandsons.

She has been published in two Lampeter Women's Workshop and one Poets and Peasants Anthologies.  Her first volume of poetry Late Blackberries  is available now either from Amazon or https://www.freewebs/lapwingpoetry or a signed copy from Brenda using the contact page.

A Selection of Brenda’s  poems

Four Women

Remembered sweets

From their childhood.

Chloroform lozenges

Sold in paper screws,

That made one sleepy

On chilly afternoons.

Twigs of Spanish wood

Chewed until stringy.

Tiger nuts, cough candy,

Sherbert powder sipped

Through a liquorice straw,

What about the bright yellow

Lemonade crystals

Loaded with sugar

And we still added more?

Asked Sue and Carol said,

Jelly  babies, ju-jubes,

Smarties in cardboard tubes,

Do you remember them?

I used to use the red ones for lipstick.

I joined in

Now it's candy sticks

 instead of sweet cigarettes. Sue said,

They’re the same thing

But without red tips.

Anne cried,

What about Space Dust?

You put some on your tongue.

When it exploded

On the roof of your mouth

It blew your head off.

Gobstoppers, bulls’ eyes,

And aniseed balls.

We remembered them all.

Echoes of spring

On an autumn evening.


The Wedding Gift

 Row after row

she watched it grow

from a single loop

into a rainbow.

 Stitch after stitch

of continuous thread

a coverlet

for their marriage bed.


He thought it beautiful

and it stays there still,

though he is gone

and she sleeps alone


in a narrow bed.

Beneath blankets

and a quilt that holds

no memory of him.


Summer Deception

Tempted by colour

from the window box.

It sips nectar

from the achimenes.

Sated, tried to leave

the cluttered room,

brushes its wings

on the clear glass.

Leaves a dust of colour,

I trace with my fingers.


A whir of wings,

A thump against the pane.

Boxed blooms wave in the wake.

Feathers and flowers fall.

Minutes later it lifts itself.

Flutters unsteadily

through the open door.

Spreads its wings.





Music borne on the breeze

the players one cannot see.

Grasses ripple, rustling leaves,

Bring notes to the symphony.

Insects, bees, bring harmony.

Mavis sings the melody.



Why Don’t You Follow The Directions?


I must have said it a hundred times.

He would obey his instinct, whether

it was a new route we were taking,

or a kit form piece of furniture

that had to be put together.

He’d always do it his way.

Until, ‘Read this for me,

Tell me what I’ve got to do.’

Or, ‘What’s the number of the road we are on?

Here’s the map, Where are we now?’

He’s made his last journey,

driven by someone else.

I followed behind, wishing

That he was still doing things

his way.  Still following his instincts.

Still needing me.


 Follow the link below to Brenda's blog.