| Home Thoughts |
One of the great joys of my job is handing out £1,000 prizes to winners of our poetry competitions.
That joy has now magnified because we have doubled the number of prize competitions we run. Our
first cash competition, The National Poetry Anthology, is now almost a decade old. Poems for this
competition have to be submitted by June 30th every year.
As with all the competitions we run, entries must be no more than 20 lines and no more than 160 words, but each
poet is allowed to submit up to three entries.
The fact that this competition is completely free contrasts refreshingly with
modern trends in poetry. All the other big competitions charge entry fees which are now rising to
around £7 per poem. This would mean that entrants who sent three poems to another competition would
have to send £21, and their chances of winning against so many thousands of other poets are very slim
indeed.
The National Poetry Anthology has become so successful that last year we decided to launch
a new competition with an annual closing date of December 31st.
This competition is for poets to submit up to three poems, with the same length limitations, on a specific subject.
We asked them to write about someone or something linked to their home town.
Since we started running that competition we've received some really excellent poetry. I have always felt that
poems written from personal experience are better than any other kind of poem.
And I think this competition and the poems selected for this book prove that fact. There is no better
example than the 2007 winner of the £1,000 cash prize Marjorie Beachill of Wath-upon-Dearne.
Marjorie has only just become a UK citizen. She was born and lived most of her life in Hawaii. "I came to Wath
nine years ago," explained Marjorie. "A new man entered my life and because I loved him so much I travelled
half way across the world to be with him.” Marjorie and husband John are happily settled in Wath.
Marjorie's poem stood out for us as touching, affectionate, from the heart and very endearing. She has
obviously fallen in love not just with John, but with the whole village.
Lynda Brennan, Editor
MY VILLAGE
If there’s one thing you’ll learn
From Wath-upon-Dearne
It’s just how a village should be.
You can take any path,
Queen of villages, Wath
England’s beauty is right here to see.
For what once was the goal
To mine enough coal
Built a people of vitality.
And now I look around
From my house to the town
And am glad to live here and be me.
For from Hadrian’s Wall
To the tip of Cornwall
I have travelled for many a day.
Round the world I have flown
Many villages known
But when asked I can honestly say.
I shall always return to Wath-upon-Dearne
To my village, my heart’s final stay.
Marjorie Beachill
DRESSOG DAYS
Dressog days and Dressog braes, each one I used to know
Dressog times, I left behind, so many years ago
Dressog hills, I would climb to yellow flowered whin bushes
By Dressog meadows I did hide deep among the rushes
In Dressog bogs, I’d catch some frogs and put them into jars
Beside Dressog streams, I’d often dream, beneath the stars
Up Dressog lanes, in the pouring rain I’d shelter by a tree
And when the weather was dry under a Dressog sky, I’d roam the countryside, so free
In Dressog fields, I can reveal, I spent so many happy hours
On a summer’s day, I would play among the lovely flowers,
Along Dressog roads, I used to stroll as the sun was sinking, in the west
Those Dressog days, now gone away, they were the very best.
Patrick Gormley
THE WHITE ROCK
If you take the back lane to Cupar,
that runs high above sleepy vales,
on the grass verge, the sharpest corner,
a large, white rock you’ll see.
How it got there no one knows.
Few people you’ll meet along the road,
winding through tree-shaded banks.
Here, one day, upon the rock, I beheld,
Jesus is Lord, scrawled in red paint,
a blemish upon it’s sweet repose.
Passing down the lane, one April.
What joy, for rain and time, I see
has, from the white rock, purged
the crude assault upon its peace,
to restore its timeless vigil.
Celia Annesley
HISTORY DIMS WITH TIME
Historic splendour casts a powerful lust
Ancient stories shimmer through the dust
A dust which forms a wide magnetic cloak
To envelop my town
Momentarily endeavours to mock this odd society
Then awakens to a new shameful mankind
A media with open eyes, but yet so blind
Who will steer the lonely ship,
when the storm grows fierce
Who would dare extract a sword,
when the core is cruelly pierced
My town lies crushed where history dims with time
Too long perhaps I clothed her in a shrine.
Elizabeth Shirley
STORM AT SEA
Two days out and in the west
A bank of clouds was climbing the sky -
A frontal system was approaching fast,
Dark nimbus turbulently mounting high.
Fragmentary wisps scudded overhead,
Heralding the storm in their wake.
The first squall hit us astern
Causing the light laden ship to shake.
She climbed the mountain high waves,
Paused, then plunged into the trough beyond.
The fury of the elements were unleashed,
Making the straining hull respond.
The blow was riding our stern - the swell running parallel to our course.
She was violently pitching and yawing,
Driven forward by the hurricane force.
The gale eventually blew itself out -
The frontal clouds proceeding on ahead,
Leaving clear skies and calm seas,
From which all chaos had fled.
Montgomery Hennegin
Montgomery Hennegin said: “I was born of American parents in Edinburgh on April 30th 1923.
Shortly thereafter the family emigrated to South Africa where I grew up and served in the
South African Air Force during the Second World War. In the late 1950’s I decided to return
to the UK but, lacking the fare, I signed on as a crew member on a cargo ship to work my
passage there. I made three voyages on her - to Montreal, Amsterdam, Houston and then to
Hull where I signed off. Storm At Sea is a poem describing a storm in the middle of the
Atlantic. Most of my poetry is inspired by personal experience.”
LIFE IN PONTYPOOL
I’m popping into Ponty’,
They’ve got everything I want,
I’ll park my car in Riverside
And walk along the ramp.
I’ll stop and chat of this and that
Recalling all the old days,
I’ll try on shoes in the corner shop
And walk up through the one-way.
The old and new lie side by side
Cocooned in continuity,
And as the river races by
It stamps our personality.
I’m grateful to the powers that be
Who’ve kept our park in harmony,
To meet the needs of young and old,
While keeping all our history.
I like my town, it’s part of me.
It’s grown and changed for all to see,
Yet keeps its own identity.
Moira Bancroft
CWMBRAN
Nestled midway up the wide eastern valley
Cwmbran spreads out for all to tarry.
Welcoming shoppers in bright open malls
With a bus centre too to make other calls.
Short runs to Fairwater or Community Farm,
To the Stadium or parks to walk without harm.
Five or more villages were linked together
All served with good roads and common weather
Help bind Cwmbran with links to the past
In the certain knowledge that it will last.
Come visit our town, you’ll be pleasantly surprised
At the quantity and quality of what’s realized,
Take pleasure in cafes, stores and theatres too
With free parking areas and an excellent loo.
Board a bus to the mountain, walk amongst trees.
Look down on the scene, enjoy what one sees
Of the town midway up the eastern valley
Where people are always welcomed to tarry.
Nils Ford
MACCLESFIELD
Macclesfield. Born out of the black
Earth of East Cheshire, cradled in
The valley like a sleeping child.
Awakening to the cry of industry
At first light. With dark sullen faces
Trapped in their silken web.
David Farr
HOME AWAY FROM HOME
A home is always away from home
And happiness a state of mind
We do not aspire for much
When everything is beyond reach
Life is set for a cause
Love is upset for a pause
Who can satisfy who?
And if so, for how long?
What is taken is to give back
What is not taken is to be left
After all, happiness is a state of mind
And our home is always away from home
Anantha Rudravajhala
LIVERPOOL - THE WORLD IN ONE CITY
A little bit of everything,
Some might say,
The world in one city,
A new adventure everyday.
Walking along the river front,
Or clubbing all night long,
In this heaven on earth,
Nothing can go wrong.
The city never sleeps,
Even when the sun goes down,
It’s always buzzing,
In the centre of town.
The passion in the crowds at the footy games,
Always makes me smile,
And when you pour out of the Anfield gates,
Red and white is the style.
City life will take over you,
It will leave you wanting more,
Make sure you keep it close to your heart,
Because Liverpool is a place worth fighting for!
Leila Rooney
Born in Liverpool, Leila Rooney has interests including rock and metal music, concerts
and travelling. “I started writing poetry at a very early age, encouraged by my teachers
and my father,” she explained. “My work is influenced by my environment and my experiences,
and I would like to be remembered as someone who thought that writing should be
interesting and fun for the reader, as well as a pleasure for the author.” Leila has an
ambition to be a psychologist. She has written song lyrics, many poems and some stories.
FIRST VISITOR
Mam! He’s like uncle Fred!
He takes after his dad!
When he smiles he’s got our Mary’s dimple
He’s not smiling. That’s wind!
Then he’s got the wind bad. He knows I’m his sister! It’s simple,
What a love, what a pet, mam, can’t I hold him yet?
How d’you know he’s a boy? Can I see?
No, you can’t! You’re too rough, covered in chocolate stuff
Well, we went to McDonald’s for tea
One cuddle won’t harm him,
my face can’t alarm him, It’s milkshake and babies like milk,
His fingers are clutching,
that’s my thumb he’s touching, His hair is so soft, mam, like silk.
What’s that horrible smell? Is it him? I’nt he well?
Here, you’d better take him, instead,
Yuk! I feel sick, get his nappy off, quick!
All babies do that, don’t be silly!
Did I poo green slime?
Did I cry all the time?
Mam, why haven’t I got a willy?
Rosemary Critchley
A LOST TOWN
Who pulled the market clock tower down,
and broke the hearts of Blackburn town,
then went mad, with pick and spade,
to do the same to Thwaites arcade.
Younger burgher’s could not have known
the beauty that those shops had shown,
with tiled facades that shone like silk,
or the crying, when they’d spilled the milk,
the perpetrators, long since departed,
continued then at what they’d started.
So the demolition carried on,
how we miss what’s long since gone.
Bill Austin
HISTORIC LANCASTER
Salute the heroes of the past
That honed the mould from which we're cast.
As evolution wends its way,
From ancient times to present day,
Business has prospered and empires grow
And from their efforts riches flow.
But titans crumble and empires fall,
Like breaches to a city wall.
New enterprise to take their place
Are required at ever increasing pace.
Give praise to those with interests spread
Who provide the work to keep us fed.
In Lancaster the men abide
To take the future in its stride.
Salute the heroes from the past,
That honed the mould from which we're cast.
Donald Armitage
Born in Arthington near Leeds, Donald Armitage has interests including fell-walking
and gardening. “I would describe my style as emotional and I would like to be remembered
for my writing. My booklet of short poems Furor Poeticus is on sale at £5 from
4 Vicarage Close, Burton-in-Kendal, Carnforth, Lancashire, LA6 1NP, postage paid.”
Aged 78, Donald is retired and has ambitions to live happily with his wife Joyce
and to remain healthy and active.
MY TOWN
I live just a bus ride from Salford.
The town where Lowry did his thing.
I bet if he painted on a Saturday afternoon
he could have heard the Chaddy end sing,
singing a song with heart and soul
to spur on our town teams side.
Just up the road from our famous hospital
where Doctor Steptoe worked with pride.
It’s only a stones throw to the civic centre
that cast shadows on our busy shopping town.
To some locals it could never be the same
since our old market hall burnt down.
I would love to ride in a hot air balloon,
not so high that I couldn’t look down
to the cobbled streets and chimney tops.
To my home in Oldham Town.
Denise Wild
Born in Oldham, Denise Wild started writing poetry after a visit to her grandmothers
graveside. “I was searching for memories and was inspired to write poetry,”
she explained. “My work is influenced by family, friends and workmates and I would
describe my style as coming from the heart. I would like to be remembered with a smile.”
Aged 45, Denise works as a bakery operative and has an ambition to live long enough to
see how Coronation Street ends. She has a partner, Julia and would most like to meet
Jane MacDonald the singer and presenter. “I have a book Wild about Life being published
at the moment and I have written about 300 poems,” added Denise.
SEABURN AT NIGHTFALL
The moon reflects on the shimmering sea,
So calm and peaceful, so serene.
The stars twinkle in the night,
Ships have gone out of sight.
The tide begins to ebb and flow,
Only sea creatures on the go.
Crazy patterns on the golden sand,
Is a marvel, couldn’t be planned.
As the night turns into day,
Seas all change in their own way.
With a heavy swell and a mighty roar,
Gusty winds whip up, on the seashore.
The swirling waves white with foam,
The anger sends the creatures home.
Later the heavy sea subsides,
Once again peaceful, no more cries.
The waves lap in a rhythmic style,
The Seaburn beach stretches a mile.
The blue North Sea begins its reign,
To be in command, all over again.
Doreen Barella
BOLSTERSTONE
Well known for their choir of male voices
Who triumphed over adversity
Parochials turned cosmopolitans, now rejoices
To hymnals from antiquity.
The Pearson brothers, also Sampsons
Hodgekinsons, Helliwell and Cook
Grandfathers, uncles, cousins, Ellisons
Generations of families it took.
That fateful day a trip to Holmfirth
During the second World War
The coaches’ brakes failed, silencing their mirth.
No detours, too late by far.
Ending upon a happier note
These folks didn’t die in vain.
Descendants living on, by performances they promote
With their relations our memories remain.
Jennifer Hudson
LEEDS
Headingley, sacred ground to every tyke,
Trueman, Botham, Goughy and the like,
Bails go flying, it’s on your bike.
The armouries are also here,
People come from far and near,
Shining knights in jousting gear.
Golden acre, Roundhay Park,
Dogs on walkies, full of bark,
Sweethearts strolling in the dark.
It’s worth a trip to Fairburn ings.
Flocking with all kinds of things,
Feathers, beaks and flapping wings.
Chapeltown carnival, you must go,
The Trinidad and Tobago show.
Steel bands, reggae and calypso.
Woodhouse fair, ee by gum,
Carousels, dodgems, loads of fun.
Helter skelter, burn your bum,
Leeds is the coolest, you must come.
Ian Tomlinson
STREAKS AHEAD
There’s a little shop in East Hull
Near to Marfleet Hill
If you need a good hairdresser
This one fits the bill
They do all the latest styles there
Whether short or long
If a haircut’s what you’re after
You know you can’t go wrong
This salon I’m describing
Is owned and run as well
By one of Hull’s top stylists
Who we know as Adele
If you make an appointment
When Adele can’t be there
You can always have your hair done
By her assistant Claire
To improve your appearance
There’s no need for the gym
Just go along to Streaks Ahead
And get yourself a trim
Gordon Cowell
THE ROYAL UMPIRE
For five centuries the Peel Tower
Stood on this high mound for all to see
It had pride and place in the barony
In thirteen hundred where once the castle stood
Bishop Bek met the King Edward the First
At Evenwood
Where the bishop and Prior Hoton
Were in dispute
One was blaming the other
They were to refute
They were both hellbent
To disagree
King Edward was there to referee
At the signing of the “Evenwood Agreement”
Tim Hicks
LUNCHTIME IN MY BACK GARDEN
A round puffball of a robin landed on my suburban
lawn. Cocked his head to one side, eyed my juicy
meatball.
Bounced around, little spider feet elevating into
air. Loved him more than a newborn child.
Threw him a potato slice, put a brazil nut in my hand.
He grabbed it, spidery feet tickled palm
for a millisecond, then he flew.
I built him a bird house, purchased cherry
blossom tree, almonds, hazelnuts, walnuts.
To give him the life of Riley.
Rachael Marsh
SOMETHING TO SHOUT ABOUT LOCALLY
It is that time, the footie season again?
There is cup fever in North Derbyshire. Up the blues.
First round they knock out Wolves of the Championship,
The Spirites Bandwagon is on the road, full to capacity.
Second round, take on the Big Guns, Man City,
Beat ’em ’ands down, a stoichal Pearce, not so witty.
Third round, maybe a thumping by The Hammers, West Ham,
Flatter to deceive, are a bunch of shammers.
Chesterfield nail ’em into the turf, subdue Mr Pardew.
The Londoners staring defeat in the face,
Yet again only bubbles blown, fairy washing up-ables remain as they make the long trek back to the smoke and rain.
The final whistle blows. An inquisitive reporter asks,
Who are these great men. Saints of the Peak?
Displaying ingenious Battlefield Communication.
Sony Ericsson’s? No, nor the Sven Goran variety,
Hail. Roy MacFarland’s esoteric sons, pride of Derbyshire.
Steven Bown
A DECENT COLLEAGUE
She doesn’t walk around, with her nose in the air,
Giving everyone a decent chance, she really plays it fair.
Larger than life, personality and smile,
Just kicking it back and chill for a while.
Great sense of humour, always a smile on her face,
It’s a laugh a minute, if you can keep up with the pace.
Standing tall, facing problems head on,
She is reliable, and helps keep me strong.
Arm around my shoulder, she’ll stand by my side,
Smiling at adversity, she has such pride.
Through the ups and downs, we’d laugh and cry,
The day will never come, when we say goodbye.
This lovely lady, big ’ole smile on her face,
She has a big heart, and so much grace.
If she ever needed me, a hand I would lend,
Because from the first day I met her, she’s been a great friend.
Michèle Wood
ALLINGTON, MY VILLAGE
Underneath oak trees, down by the green, the village thrives
And creates the scene of winding lanes that lead nowhere
Except to cottages tucked here and there
With lace covered windows and ivy clad walls,
Nestled gently where the blackbird calls,
By fields of sheep, and others of corn at the farm which works from dusk till dawn
Friendly horses peep over the hedge, and chickens scratch on the grassy edge
There’s the local shop where villagers meet for a friendly chat on the village street
A tiny school, and the local inn for a welcome pint, or maybe a gin!
There’s the church nearby, and the village hall with many activities for one and all
Where people participate every day, and it’s hoped it will always stay that way.
Though not always idyllic as it appears, village life has gone on for years,
With its open fields, and working land, there is nothing quite like rural England
Jan Imeson
MARKET DAY
Today it's Wednesday and it's market day.
We are excited as we get ready to travel to Hereford Town,
my two little girls and me.
We always look forward to market-day to see the cows, the piglets and sheep.
And after some shopping we have something nice to eat. It's a treat.
The market place buzzes with farmers and people.
In different sections moo-ing cows, squeeling pigs and sheep.
Wandering amongst the crates and pens
we look at the chickens, the ducks and hens,
deafening noise amongst chatter and flatter
the smell reminds me of countryside and barns.
Now this was long ago.
My girls have grown up and live away.
The market still is, although no longer as I remember.
Hereford has many new buildings, supermarkets and shops.
All very nice, and many cafe's where you can sit outside and have your tea.
But I will always remember the days long ago when we went to market mid-week
to see the cattle the piglets and sheep.
Christine Y Goode
MOUNT FARM LAKE, BLETCHLEY
A thorny problem they had to unravel,
When houses and roads, they had built for the folk.
There would be little land left, for rainwater to soak,
But they had this exceedingly large deep pit.
They have extensively excavated it,
Removed nearly all the gravel.
Not for themselves alone,
But for everyone’s sake.
They could kill two birds with one stone.
While creating a beautiful balancing lake.
Surplus water the pit would retain,
Until to awaiting rivers, the restless rain could drain.
To heighten the new lake’s stature,
Human hands would landscape, and cultivate,
In this way, assisting nature.
We often walk round this beautiful lake,
A feast for wandering, wondering eyes,
From high hedges of ripening blackberries,
To fluorescent darting dragonflies.
Geoffrey Martin
NIGHT LIVES
Going home on the train
Through a dark winter night,
I look out at the light
Behind every pane
Of countless windows gliding by,
Pale little squares set in black façades.
Where unknown people act out the charades
Of their unknown lives. And I try
To imagine how fate deals with each
Of the fleeting shadows I see.
As my train clatters onward to carry me
To my home and out of their reach.
Every bright window square
Holds someone’s destiny,
Highlights the agony
We all have to bear,
All of us acting out unknown charades,
Mute behind numberless black façades.
Rose Liebmann
WALK ROUND FLEET POND
How luminous the hour,
How much it did contain.
Good fellowship and gain
Of mental pictures bright.
The chequered forest floor,
Roof of translucent leaves
Wherein the sunshine weaves
The green and gold of fall.
The ducks and swans at ease,
The glitter on the lake.
Sedges and reeds that shake,
Sound of the sighing wind.
And soon, when winter’s here,
A light for darker days.
That we may speak the praise
Of God, who guides the sun.
Sheila Durbin
THE OLD CHURCH ST LUKES
On the corner the old church stands silent, alone,
Its congregation of followers vacant and gone.
A remnant of the past of Kentish Town,
Forgotten in this modern day,
The large bell silent waits to ring again.
As it once proudly chimed loudly,
Like the tones of the organ no longer played.
Lost the choral hymns of Sunday.
Gone like the dinosaurs of the past,
Empty building of a once thriving religion,
Once bustling with life, hope and meaning.
No longer serving our diverse community.
Its followers departed lay silent in the ground,
No more a sanctuary for souls.
But a lost hope of holiness,
A relic forgotten by mankind and progress.
No congregation to gather in waves or crowds,
The old church on the corner stands tall, silent and alone.
Martine Gafney
THE PRINCESS
With the big smile
And long black hair
Asleep in the chair
Awakens with her great big eyes
Is beautiful and tries
I call her by her name Chelsea
As she walks towards me
She puts out her hand
And sticky sweet gives
Looks up at me and I bend
To her as she wants a kiss
And she goes back happy
To sit on her mother’s knee
Listening to choir sing
By Father Alan Sharpe, St Patricks
Julie Canham
GUILDFORD CATHEDRAL
A little known fact, one eerie night in this lovely city
The Omen was filmed, ‘tis a pity
For I cannot drive past the cathedral and appreciate its beauty
Without thinking of Damien on his devilish duty
Poor Gregory Peck in an undeserving role
Played his father which took its toll
Sequels two and three were filmed elsewhere
More encounters with Damien we could not bear
A grand and glorious cathedral tainted by the devil’s own
In Hollywood’s idea of a macabre tone
The uplifting view driving up the road
No longer can I see without forebode
I hope I did not scare you with my tale of sorrow
Goodnight, sweet dreams, we’ll meet tomorrow...
Mubarika Bushra Sami
FARAWAY THOUGHTS OF HOME
It’s teatime at home but I’m far away,
On the other side of the world.
Christmas is near but I have to stay
On the other side of the world.
The streets will be bright with last year’s lights,
They were stars, I remember them well.
A cut-back of course on a budget still tight,
And a tree in the square, I remember it well.
A small place, familiar, historic, and home,
Friends will be shopping in tinsel-decked shops, but not me.
The shops here are gorgeous but I shop alone,
People all going to parties and shows, but not me.
Presents all ready and turkeys all bought,
Invites given, I’ll be home, wait for me!
Is there room on a flight, it’s a last minute thought,
The stars are still lit, I’ll be home, wait for me!
Ann Pendleton
MILL ’N’ STOUR
Just there by the river Stour, at Throop, the mill,
Where they made flour,
As a child and as an adult too, I’ve watched the river
running through.
Across the weir and on down stream,
Kingfishers I have seen, such vivid colour on the wing,
Mallards and swans amble by, against the blue of summer sky,
The whisper of the summer breeze,
Eases through the rushes and the willow trees.
Across the styles, there’s not a trace of the hustle
and bustle, no rat race.
Just a thoughtful, quiet and tranquil place.
It’s the only place that remains true,
Before Townsend and Castlepoint grew, where my home is, between the two.
But by the river, that’s where I love to be, propping up a
willow tree,
Sitting there, we three, the mill, my memories and me.
Janet S Rogers
AUTUMN AND WINTER
The winter sun shines brilliantly upon the ice
Although not very warm, everywhere looks very nice
The stragglers of the autumn leaves
Are lying on the ground
The sun glistens on their colours
As the frost settles on the ground
As the sun shines the ice does melt
Making the leaves quite soggy
Now we will see more dampness
Because it will soon become quite foggy
The paths get treacherous under heel
Autumn has stayed too late I feel
Some leaves remain upon the trees
Eventually these will fall
If we get a good breeze
Violetta Ferguson
AMBER’S WALK
The stillness of the early morn,
Before the early light
When I take our terrier Amber,
For the first of his three walks.
The way is long and peaceful
And darkness all about,
With the street lights, and the moon above
To give us guiding light.
The rustle of the falling leaves
With the coolness of a mellow breeze
And the cries of a new born baby
The beginning of a fresh day dawning.
On the walks return, I paused awhile
As darkness turned to light
To see the beauty of the country
With nature’s gifts of love.
The spirit of our community
Brings forth its own rewards
In every day which passes by
In our village filled with love.
Jim Carlin