Waka Club — Free Wandering with Words and Brush

The Waka Club is a gentle space to explore poetry, art, and companionship. Here, members learn to create English poems in the elegant Japanese style of waka — with the help of AI as a quiet poetic companion.

Imagine sitting with a painting, brush in hand, words waiting quietly on your tongue. No rush, no performance — only the rhythm of ink and the soft weight of a poem.

Inspired by Zhuangzi’s idea of Xiaoyao You — Free Wandering, the Waka Club is not about achieving or proving. It is about drifting lightly through moods and images: melancholy, hopeful, playful, or mysterious. Each session is a chance to wander freely between painting, poetry, and reflection, without boundaries.

For those curious about technology, the host gives friendly demonstrations on how to use AI safely and creatively — not as a teacher, but as another companion in the wandering.

Alongside the poetry, there is a calligraphy practice area for members who prefer solitude and quiet brushwork. For those who enjoy sharing, we offer a printing service: poems can be designed with chosen colour themes, script fonts, and background paintings, to create something beautiful to keep or gift.

Membership is £18 for four sessions.

Drop-in sessions are £5 each.

The Waka Club is less about performance and more about presence — finding freedom in small moments, letting words and brushstrokes carry you like drifting clouds, and discovering joy in wandering without destination.

Waka & Brush

Poetry, Painting, and Quiet Companionship

In this workshop, we sit with classical Chinese paintings, let the brush move gently on paper, and read short waka poems together. It is not about skill or performance. It is about finding a moment of stillness, reflection, and gentle joy. For seniors, this practice has a special value: It is easier than social media, but more engaging than TV. It keeps memory, language, and imagination gently awake. Writing with brush and ink supports hand–eye coordination. Poetry gives rhythm and softness to the mind. This makes the workshop especially welcoming for those who sometimes feel forgetful, tired, or overwhelmed. Here, nothing is rushed. Every painting and every poem is an invitation to pause, reflect, and carry sweetness into daily life.

Is it a lotus, or cloud that opens its heart? Rainbow between them, a bridge no hand can follow — yet the soul already walks.

After the shower, rainbows span the heavy sky — white clouds drifting high, a hidden lotus blossom shines among the darkened leaves.

Batting at the string, your laughter flickers like light, quick and vanishing— such fleeting, tender delight, more than long vows could ever.

Like a gentle cat, you rest in my open palm— then leap away. Still the warmth upon my skin remains, and that is enough.

With no need to grasp, your presence drifts around me like plum’s faint fragrance— I breathe it without effort, and my heart becomes lighter.

Beneath broad green leaves, A pair of fish draw circles — Not seeking to flee. But caught in the soft current of a moment not yet past.

I rose through still dark in the silence of night, just a single glance— then disappeared softly, to spare us both the ache.

Petals falling down, my hand does not reach for them, weighted with silence. An unspoken tenderness sinks quietly into wind.

Migrating sparrows, leaving only a faint smile before they depart. I chase their laughter upward, until the sky swallows sound.

If I could offer only the fragrance of spring, pressed in a poem, would your heart open to me like blossoms in early rain?

Ink blot spreading fast— my thoughts scatter like wild birds, untamed, unsettled. Only when silence returns do I see the line is straight.

On the quiet pond, a single ripple drifts wide, vanishing slowly. The heart too releases pain, like water forgetting stone.

Among bare branches, I glimpse the pale morning star— sign of dawn to come. So too, in the coldest hour, light prepares its gentle step.

Sleeves damp with soft rain, yet I smile at the fragrance— plum blossoms falling. Even sorrow tastes sweeter when carried on spring’s breeze.