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National Poetry Day
2005 Competition entries The winner was Ros Treloar,
from Love Sears
Cultural Memory Ros Treloar Voomph – The sound of self immolation I was discovered and explored as if by Dampier. Saturated in love I knew what would happen if I lit a match. I had to live without skin in East Coker. I knew it viscerally. I grew English wildflowers in shallow granite in my Australian garden, installing a watering
system, mulching, manuring, coaxing. I chuckled at my folly when I saw East
Coker’s effortless snowdrops lift Spring up under
the birches and jostling foxgloves and Queen Anne’s
lace polish the sides of
cars in East Coker lanes. In the foothills of my house had an open fire. But in East Coker it wasn’t whitegum
burning fiercely. Instead I barrowed an unknown timber to the back door and learned the
ritual of coal, firelighter, kindling, coal and only then the split logs. My dusty Australian-ness is only generations old, laid lightly on me. It’s preceded by mist, mud, rain, flowing and flowing and
flowing finally into my own
veins. East Coker’s slush and gravel under my boots felt
easy. The hamstone seemed
modern. The rock walls bulged, holding back hills. I felt pulled underground with the stream, surfacing near the green. I knew the milky stripe of sun through cloud. My honest, honest Australian sons were Gullivers in the village, bruising their foreheads
on rafters. They visited at Christmas, arriving defiant and
exhausted in boardshorts. Heads up, they were strong – hill forts and
valiant battles in their histories, too. I don’t know the meaning of burning. The scars are a rough rippling, inhibiting movement. Mothlike, I couldn’t
resist the flame. I could have painted splashes of iridescent blue on my winter black coat and flapped my tropical butterfly to the Priory, the Helyar, St
Michael’s, leaving threads behind
in hedges. But it seems I have to wait for my season. An Australian native plant that needs intense
heat to germinate. An evening stroll through East Coker Jean Caunter Beneath the dark and lowering clouds Above the line of trees, A shimmering band of brilliant light Glows as the sun sinks down.
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Sunset An owl floats down to hoot and hunt, The weary land must rest. Nocturnal creatures snuffling out Seek food as darkness falls.
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Twilight The wondrous moon shines kindly down Night now enfolds our world Bright friendly stars that guide us all Will point us back to home.
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East Coker is revisited for the Millennial
Edition of the Domesday Book David Cloke The East
Coker District of Yeovil lies between the Sutton Bingham
Bypass and the White Post Hyperama Shopping Centre. Entering
into the district in the electric tram Mr Agawaal
with clip-board and data entry pen is agreeably surprised by the neat
metal dwellings stretching far in the distance from the Ten
House stop where, alighting, his eye is caught by
neon hoardings advertising exotic food eaten under gaudy
awnings at the Afghan café in Helyar Arms
Road. Paying
at the toll booth he walks towards the church, preserved for all, with simulated bells
contending with the roar of traffic never
ending. Then reading in the information kiosk that the
old bells had been removed some time ago - for a health and
safety reason. He thinks
the church looks small and quaint against the cooling towers of Back Lane
Nuclear Power Station. Lying in
the gutter, forlorn in the empty silence; a large dead bird, whose last nocturnal flight had ended,
hypnotised perhaps by the sultry headlight of an
on-coming car. In the
middle of Cemetery Roundabout, a megalithic stone with its double M engraving hidden by a blue and white keep right sign provides an ornamental feature, standing
on its own. He leans
against the savings bank while a tram passes and now the light is falling notices
the pleasant silhouette of the mosque in He notes
a few old houses do remain, contrasting unfavourably with the modern corrugated metal
sprawl. The warm
haze of sodium street-lights show crosses painted white on doors of cottages destined by
the council for terminal withdrawal. Heading
home on the 212 tram, Mr Agawaal, who lives in the suburbs of Yeovil, at Mullahs Caundle, muses how lovely East Coker looks with
the roofs glinting in the runway lights of Yeovil International, and passes again the corpse of the bird he had
seen. People hurry by. How sad, he thought and wished that he had
stopped. It seemed no one would wait for the dead owl. East Coker Edna G
Withers (1906-2005) Oh, I
love to visit East Coker At any
time of the year, It’s
such lovely village, And
folks are so friendly there. Oh, I
love to visit East Coker When Winter frosts seem to glow, And
short spells of Winter sunshine Cast
shadows on sparkling snow. Oh, I
love to visit East Coker When Springtime leaves Winter behind, And
squirrels come out from their hiding To
search for foods of all kinds. Oh, I
love to visit East Coker When all
the Spring flowers are there. Spring
blooms will carpet the paddocks With
flowering trees everywhere. Oh, I
love to visit East Coker When Summer is drawing near; When Spring lambs gambol and play about, And
migrant birds appear. Oh, I
love to visit East Coker In Autumn when leaves disappear, For soon
we’ll be back to Winter With
Christmas again drawing near. Oh, I
wish I could live in East Coker, For
folks are so friendly there, And
everyone seems to have time for A
few kindly words to spare. Oh
yes! I shall get to East Coker, For I’ve
been allotted my space In that
lovely, peaceful green acre, My
very last resting place. Variations on a theme Garry Denbury In order to arrive at what you are not You must go through the way in which you are
not. T S
Eliot, East Coker In the
hidden dusty corner by the wainscot where the field
mouse trots and the tractor rattles by gnarled men tip their caps laugh and complain play cards in a game that nobody wins the endless game of ploughing and reaping and heat and cold. Women
come and go blowing conversation bubbles full of
magic grim muttered lips emboldened by a second glass of Chardonnay beneath quick helicopter clatter dissect last night’s one night stand the Tory candidate’s blue eyes fear of the assassin in the deep
lanes the cost of existence. The last
hand is revealed by the wainscot where the field mouse
trots money changes hands a game that nobody wins. Sitting
quiet at the window you are seared by the sudden flash of illumination when you see the goddess and the goddess sees you from a passing car. Turning
you see the goddess quietly sitting across the room a hennaed woman with lovely white bruised legs alone.. waiting..
watching.. watched mirrors reflect fingers caress lipstick against puckered mouth the fingers the same sometimes whiter sometimes browner sometimes hotter sometimes colder the rings different now silver now
gold the jewelled eyes of the serpent flashing amethysts fingers blur with a blur of time mouth moving with the shape of alien
words heard just once through open doors breasts shrink and grow with every word The man
in handsome corduroy suit stands foursquare at the bar jingling change in his pocket in a minor J Arthur key turns to the woman with lovely bruised
legs Ice and lemon? No lemon give
it a stir Smile of recognition Youngs for
me the
middle-aged passing Daimler no doubt of
that beautifully
kept well-polished slippery
leather back seat look slippy kiss my legs bite them
bite them Pale
legs beneath a scarlet dress stir memories of lust for the smell of a body long since dust two coffees two seventy
thank you are these your own trout? Black
and white cows stare in the window from the streamside across the road electric coach lamps sparkle in the
plates rubbed clean with bread legs so white the bruises show expert eyes look sideways her kind mouth smiles See you
here tonight? Good-bye
sweet people wait in the heat creating the past out of your waiting remembering only too well what did not happen and now can never happen but in this imagined reality our bodies flow into each other
coupling the other side of silence the everyday shape of a kiss proof
mouth painted in a perfect bow across the sky that needs no words but colour’s emphasis. The
mouse that scuttles through the dust of centuries has no sense of history and yet a lifetime of forgotten moments
awaits her in a background glance in the
mirror a good-bye wave than means no au revoir no sight beyond the face said
good-bye to the abrupt turn of the head one of indifference as she goes through the door with a
final click. There’s
a whole afternoon to live through right now.. sorry
about that there you go We wait
filling our time with this and that waiting remembering creating our past out of our waiting the room that looks out at grass and
trees where the wind blows most of the time shaking the wainscot where gnarled men tip their caps deal another hand while memories slip into their tough
minds girls with slim teenage legs and wanton eyes sitting in windy bus shelters icy hands inside their shirts foolings and fondlings the taste of kiss-proof paint. Now they
remember only too well as the cards slide off the table what did not happen as though it did breasts slipping out of black lace love bites bruising virgin white
flesh making an irrelevance of hands memories more real than reality dribbles covering the trail of a hundred
snails lead to a future remembering a
recreated past a world that grows strangers as the tractor rattles by.. and rattles by as the light falls the endless game of cards that nobody wins, an echo from grim muttered lips. East Coker: Sally Jackson A stretch of undulating land Benignly bound by gentle hills For centuries home to many folk With different tongues and different skills; Once, too, the home of wolf and boar, Stag and doe, the huntsman’s prey. For gatherers, the wooded slopes Gave fruit and nuts in rich display. Our people later learned to till The soil to give them grain for food; To tame the beasts for milk and meat, And find for homes no lack of wood. How long this life was settled here We do not know, till Roman feet Came marching northward from the sea. They reached this vale and found it sweet - Sweet indeed to settle here And build a villa in Roman style, Of stone, with hypocaust and bath, And mosaic floors - a spacious pile. With Roman laws life settled down. The land was farmed, serfs strove to please. Their chieftains took on Roman ways, And spoke the Latin tongue with ease. But Roman power was not to last. Invaders made the legions go, Leaving unmanned their forts and camps, And locals alone to face the foe. With armies marching from the east Britons fled and Saxons came Who saw this valley as their home. “Cochre”, gold-earth,
they called its name. With Saxon customs, Saxon ways The land was farmed, the soil was tilled. As Christian teaching reached the west So churches men began to build. At Cochre they built one
on the ground Among the houses near the well. But every night the work was moved By whose labour none
could tell, Moved away from the site they chose Further away and up the hill, Until they knew the church must be Not where they wanted, but at God’s will. Though King Alfred keep the Danes
at bay The time came when the Saxon rule, Like Roman power, was forced away, When William came from overseas, Defeated Harold, claimed
the crown. As Life, no easier, settled down. The Castles, fortresses and halls Strongholds, with chapels, for their lords, With firm foundations, solid walls, To keep marauding bands at bay. As time went by and change took place, The style of building grew more
fine, And cathedrals rose with Gothic grace. With windows large and a central tower St Michael’s church was built anew. Beside it in the Gothic style They build a splendid manor, too. Later, when Britons sailed the seas In vessels made of English oak They came to East Coker for the sails Made from flax grown here by local folk. Among the men who sailed away Two people brought East Coker fame: Dampier first sighted Australian land; Eliot’s poet descendent bore his name. Little disturbed the rural scene Through centuries of peace and wars Except when plague from outside came And seized its victims in deadly jaws. The approaching railway clattered by Just beyond the village bounds. No other outside noise was heard But the huntsman’s horn and baying hounds. Then changed came when steamships took The place of clippers on the sea, East Coker twine works still remained But the demand for sailcloth ceased to be. The 20th century brought more change. Though two wars took some men away, New homes were needed, houses built For office workers out all day. Where horses plodded with creaking loads And pony traps kept a gentle trot, With tractor, lorry, bus and car, The petrol invasion swept off the lot. The lowing cattle, bleating sheep, Such age-old sounds are hear to hear, When tractors roar along the street, And ‘copter chopping fills the ear. Yet still the new invaders come, Working for Westlands or
Fleet Air Arm; Or seeking quiet retirement homes; Or weekend havens with rural charms. But when industrial developers plan to invade Everyone joins
in a belligerent stand To protest and repel this terrible threat To their
homes, their village, their traditional land! |