National Poetry Day 2006

Competition entries

A November Walk

Tugged, torn and tattered, they loose their hold.

Damp, dank and dying, in dammed-up streams and ditches

They lie: no hope of Spring.

Tugged, torn and tattered, nailed to a tree.

Strung up and sacrificed for sin, in blistering midday sun,

You gave your all, to give me hope of Spring.

Jacqueline Clough

The Seasons

Salt, mustard, vinegar, pepper -

The children’s counting game.

Count down, eliminate, who’ll be left?

The chosen one.  What’s your name?

Spring, summer, autumn, winter -

The old one’s counting game.

Count down, eliminate, who’ll be left?

Death’s chosen one.  What’s your name?

Anne Bingley

Wintry Thoughts In August

Winter is coming,

Shut all the doors;

Blowing the cold wind

Into one’s pores.

Teeth start chattering,

Goose-pimples rise,

It’s a hard job to tell

If one’s dead or alive!

- The rain has ceased

Out comes the sun,

Now is the time for more summer

FUN

Lesley Lindsay (at age 13)

Seasons On The Road

Spring Bank Holiday chaos

shouts the headline glimpsed in passing.

New roads have moved the jams

to further on:  To new black spots

blossoming with speed restriction signs

where diesel fumes mask the scent of flowers

surviving from more leisured times.

High summer brings death

to myriads of small winged creatures;

Tattered wings of butterflies

adorn hot radiator grills

and blood-red beetles stick like glue

to speeding windscreens

and spoil the view.

Autumn leaves memories of rhythmic wipers.

Faces peering through misted toughened glass.

Mellow indicators signal turnings home

as fog lights crawl along the by-pass.

And all the while, condensation is forming stealthily

in rows of cars in quietly cooling car-parks

where damp motors will cough to life eventually.

Halford’s advertising de-icer spray

heralds winter; but will be seldom used.

For as usual it is unseasonably mild,

leaving the crocuses and daffodils confused.

The Met Office though predicts a cold spell on the way

and gritting lorries flash orange in the winter sky

to spread the salt that slowly rots our cars away.

David Cloke

It’s the kindest April

It’s the kindest April you said

when we met by the river

that warm spring day

nothing will ever be cruel to us

fingers and thoughts entwined

green beneath green leaves rustling

dappling the sun

The leaves grew and we scratched

love messages upon them

feasting upon each other

where we lay by the side of the river

brightly passing us by

The messages grew as the leaves grew

we pulled them down

and marked the pages of love poems

in books slipped out dustily

from shelves heavy with the past

And then one day

I crunched ice on the towpath

picked up a handful

of crumbling messages

and threw them on the water

and watched them

float away

and thought I saw you

on the opposite bank

walking hand in hand with yourself

your face turned up

towards a darkening grey.

Garry Denbury

Blackberries

Summer is out of sorts, her grass-green hair

Has lost its lustre, her complexion’s sallow.

She’s let herself go, her make-up’s wearing thin.

But in the bushes her fat baby

Burbles with inky lips

And the hedges grow bug-eyed with blackberries.

Ripeness is all and here is England’s

Never-failing bounty -

Blown bubbles, juice-black, ready to drop

At lightest fingertap into your purpled palm.

The whiskery kiss of the calyx, the stickiness, the hot sweet scent

— Summer’s last bequests

Before October comes and the Devil’s dew

Descends like acid rain

Rinsing the light from their cheeks

The sweetness from their flesh.

Anthony Watts

October in Japan

(The first three lines of this poem are from T S Eliot’s Four Quartets)

Dawn points, and another day

prepares for heat and silence.

Out at sea ..

Pink smog, on blue, clear skies

and certain clarity in the light

that warns of snow.

                                                Driving out of Tokyo

my companion, a schoolteacher,

tries to explain,

                                                to get a view

of Mount Fuji, could be problematic

and for reasons peculiar

to the mountain

like that of a God, the mountain

would choose whether to give way.

Mark Turpin

Seasons

The bright green shoots of the snowdrop

Come struggling through the earth

Their delicate white petals top

The crocuses renewing their birth.

The evening light gets longer

There’s a warmness in the air

A yearn for the coast gets stronger

With sea breezes caressing our hair.

The autumn appears rather calming

With leaves reluctant to shed

The birds find the apples quite charming

It’s as if they’ve never been fed.

The frosty evenings get chilly

There’s a flickering fire in the grate

Young children are getting quite silly

As the snow settles out on the gate.

Diana Turton

Cuckoo Call

And there it was!  Miraculous!

Arriving in a shiver of bright green,

frivolous, teasing catkin tails,

a flickering of swallows, violets,

a sheen of crocus, uncurling hawthorn,

a melt of water, primroses in the hedge.

Dawn reddening the frosty field like blood,

there’s an eyeless lamb, stiff, cold. 

Swoop of a sparrowhawk looping the barn

to steal day old chicks.

Across the valley the cuckoo’s call

faint but sure.

And there you were

releasing winter’s grip.

Your warmth unfurls my tenderness.

For you I sing a merry madrigal,

I put on crocus-satin gold,

dare the cold, risk a late frost

blossom beneath your touch

Because there is no choice in the necessity of the season

I surrender to your kiss,

Winter’s over.  Spring is victorious.

Somewhere across the valley a cuckoo calls

faint but sure.

Jane Williams

November

The November mist is magical

as night begins to fall,

covering the earth with a quiet grey shawl.

Robins cease their bright songs, magpies hush their chatter,

listen to the silence - no more clatter.

The golden coloured Maples,

their leaves glowing brightly on the ground,

the wind swiftly twirling them

as spinning tops, round and round and round.

Squirrels scurry home, their winters fayre all gathered,

little children sitting snugly by an amber fire.

Summer days are dreamt of, Autumn fall expired.

Old Winter time is with us now - making us so tired.

Christine Cole

Untitled

Blue satin canvas, green, yellow ochre and hue,

contrasting grey clouds afloat on the blue,

each moment that passes the sky’s scene is anew. 

From outside my window to right out of view,

the next stage is waiting as if in a queue.

No tree can be sheltered from acer to yew

as far off in the distance the thunder will brew.

But it will pass by the morning and let the sun through,

first task is to light and then soak up the dew

in fields and on farms from cattle to ewe

We say our own grace thank God, thank you.

Tony Makepeace

New Tree

A brand new tree, a sapling,

Just inches high,

Unfurls its first Spring’s greenery.

The old Horse Chestnut shakes

Its washed, limp, emerald hankies

Out to dry.

There’s sudden sparkling sun,

Before the rain

Scowls its hasty, darker mood

Across the glittering grasses.

Then vibrant, sparking, living light -

In sun again.

A rich and heavy August day,

A burdened sky.

Then the first fat raindrops fall,

Warm and overripe as fruits,

Pattering and smattering into the dust

To split and die.

The rain, a cloudburst, roars and clatters.

After the storm,

The musky, heady perfume of the earth

Rises into the clean, blue air.

The wanton meadows bask in sunshine,

Curvaceous, warm.

The squirrels busy themselves, greedy, frantic,

Hiding nuts away.

Such an extravagant, sumptuous harvest -

Apples, acorns, berries, all the flighted seeds,

The damp air laden with bittersweet smells,

Toadstools and decay.

A cold, hard morning, ice and silence,

Breath you can see.

All the moisture taken from the air

And colour stolen by the frost.

A determined, hidden conker worms its root -

A brand new tree.

Iona Lambe

Changing Seasons

Where have all the seasons gone, that in our childhood days

Heralded the changing patterns, counselling our ways?

Now they merge without defining when each season’s ending,

Autumn, winter, spring and summer, all together blending.

What happened to the winters, the ones we used to know

When villagers prepared themselves for several feet of snow?

The shiny shovels propped up ready by the bags of sand

And neighbour stood by neighbour, all set to lend a hand.

The wintry winds that blew across the levels and the moors

And Jack Frost’s feathery fingers adorned the cottage doors.

Are they really gone forever, or will global warming bring

No contrast in the seasons ‘twixt winter and the spring.

Why are modern Christmases so seldom crisp and even,

No snowy footprints on the paths as on the Feast of Stephen?

Today we splatter through the muddy puddles in our wellies.

More likely, though, we’ll all be glued like zombies to our tellies.

And in the autumn when the leaves were falling from the trees

The fields of golden corn were gleaned by all the families.

Then, haystacks rose up from the fields like scattered golden knolls,

Today, machine-made hay bales lie in rows like sausage rolls.

Years ago the summer days seemed hotter and much longer,

Remembering my burning limbs, I’m sure the sun was stronger.

Picnicking while watching cricket - all day long we’d stay,

Today we’re much more likely to be told that “rain stopped play”.

Spring defies all atmospheric changes, and keeps bringing

Snowdrops, daffodils and trees with catkins gaily swinging.

Perhaps we should stop looking back to days that used to be

And grasp with gladness what we have and all live happily!

Penny Marpole

A Time For Everything

And a season for every activity under the Heaven

Ecclesiastes

I

“Spring the sweet Spring

The year’s pleasant King”

                                                Shakespeare

Sweet spring you come with lovely grace

Dispelling gloom with April’s face.

Primrose banks and daffodils,

And new lambs gambolling on the hills.

The lacy pattern of the trees

Wears gauze green-glinting in the breeze.

Dawn’s chorus puts an end to night

And swallows swoop in returning flight.

While wide-mouthed fledglings in the nest

Wait for parents who are sorely pressed

To keep their hungry offspring fed;

And hedgehogs stir their wintry bed;

Frog spawn glitters on the ponds;

Fern and bracken uncurl tender fronds.

Gold catkins hang; pussy willow spears

Bear silver tips.  And then appears

A white flowering on the blackthorn bush,

And winter comes back with a rush.

O fickle spring we never know

If you will bring us frost or snow!

But swiftly all the blossoms come:

Almond and cherry, apple, plum.

And cuckoos loudly call their name

As they come with their usurping game.

With sunny spells and gentle rain

A smiling king comes back again

To remind us of that other King,

Who died and rose again to bring

Us hope in spite of all our sins.

For when Winter dies, new Life begins.

II

“Fair waved the golden corn

In Canaan’s pleasant land

When full of joy some shining morn

Went forth the reaper-band”

                                                Hymns Ancient and Modern

“It was a summer evening

Old Caspar’s work was done

And there before his cottage door

Was sitting in the sun”

Southey

O happy summer morning, when we’ve dreamt the night away,

The sunlight wakes us early to greet the coming day.

Light-heartedly we go to work, whatever it may be

And rush into the open as soon as we are free.

The trees are freshly dressed in green, the flowers open wide

Flamboyant in the colours they are showing off with pride.

Young corn shimmers in the breeze like waves on a lazy sea.

Sheep have lost their woolly fleece, cows shade beneath a tree.

O lazy summer afternoon when the sun is riding high.

Work becomes a burden and we only want to lie

And sleep away the heavy hours until the heat is less.

When we can wake restored again to work with eagerness.

Now welcome is the thunderstorm which clears the brooding air

And welcome, too, the summer rain, which refreshes everywhere.

O blessed summer evening when the daily work is done,

When we sit outside in comfort and watch the setting sun.

The daylight slowly seeps away; the birds have ceased to sing.

The bees returning to the hive, there’s a hush on everything.

The bats are wheeling overhead, uttering their silent sound.

We sit in peaceful thankfulness for all good things around.

III

“Seasons of mists and mellow fruitfulness”

                                                Keats

Screaming seagulls in the tractor’s wake

Dive and settle on waves of fresh-turned earth

Which break along the hedge where scarlet beads of briar

Rival the jet-like jewels of blackberry and sloe,

Caught in the lacy new-spun spider’s webs

Beneath the smoky shawl of Old Man’s Beard.

There Robin sings his Autumn song,

To proclaim his kingdom to the world.

Here a bush is flaming in my path -

Moment of wonder, flood of joy and pain -

Were I Moses I would bare-foot stand

And hear the Voice of God.

But straining, staring, waiting for the Word

I lose the clarity of timeless Now,

Return to yesterday, tomorrow, concerns of everyday

As, enveloped in descending mist,

The golden glory of the fiery bush,

And the Voice I did not hear

Are gone.

The tractor’s silent in the yard.

No seagull cries

And no birds sing.

IV

“If Winter comes can Spring be far behind?”

                                                Shelley

“If Winter comes” -  it always comes and with it respite brings

From the endless daily work and the many other things

The greedy months require; and to the woodland trees,

Released from leafy burdens, it brings a time to sleep at ease.

In coverlet of rime or snow, the earth is freed from toil;

The biting frost chews up the clods to make a fertile soil.

Storms and gales tear down weak limbs and sweep away decay,

While flooding rains seep through the earth to store beneath the clay.

Moonlight burnishes like steel the ghostly shapes below

And bright stars pierce the darkened sky like sparks of fiery snow.

But winter brings us Christmas time, a time of feast and song

And telling stories by the fire, for days are short and nights are long.

Then beneath the wintry pall come hints of something new,

A shy snowdrop or aconite - not just hope but true!

Winter’s story of a Holy Birth, is a powerful symbol for the mind,

To reaffirm, when Winter comes, Spring is not far behind.