FOXY MEX FREE OR DONATION SPECIAL EDITION
Ted Hughes
Poetry
Festival Anthology
2016
“You are who you choose to be.” Ted Hughes - The Iron Man
Find your way around the
FOXY MEX
Ted Hughes Poetry Festival Anthology 2016 6
- What's It Like To Be A Poet From Mexborough?
7
- Selected Poems for the Don & Dearne VOICES OF THE VALLEY
36 - The Ted Hughes Trail
IAN PARKS
MAP
39 - The Next Generation DONCASTER'S YOUNG POETS
www.tedhughesproject.org Design:
WARREN DRAPER
Artistic Direction: Photography:
RACHEL HORNE
DOMINIC SOMERS
With Special Thanks To: PAUL DYSON
LESLEY MERRIN IAN PARKS
MEXBOROUGH ACADEMY XP SCHOOL
horne&draper Everyday Audacity.
Right Up Our Street is led by a consortium of Doncaster arts organisations and supported using public funding by the National Lottery through Arts Council England until 2016. Published by horne&draper art - design - publishing www.horneanddraper.com Printed by Buxton Press, Palace Rd, Buxton SK17 6AE
In the print version of this book we ran out of space to include all of the wonderful poems offered for publication in the Selected Poems for the Don & Dearne section of the anthology (page 6) by Ian Parks & Paul Dyson. Ultimately we decided which poems to include based purely on the length of the poems submitted. The longest poems were excluded from the printed edition. To redress he balance we have increased the page number of the online edition to include all of the poems originally submitted for publication. We are also delighted to be able to include a wider selection of poems from the regions amazing child poets.
What's It Like To Be A Poet From MEXBOROUGH?
That’s a question I often get asked. I’ve
fields and woods that surrounded it; and
always wanted to be a poet and my
a wooded valley with a river running
Mexborough roots are deep. I was born
through it remains the inner landscape of
in the front room of the house I now live
my dreams. To get from the town to the
in – a stone-fronted terraced house on
countryside you had to use the ferry over
the main road through town that used to
the Don and one of my earliest memories is
serve as the registry of births and deaths.
of being pulled across the river to the other
I often think of the Mexborough people
side. As I grew up that journey became
who passed through it to register births,
symbolic, passing not only from town to
marriages, and the deaths of men killed in
country but also from control to freedom,
pit accidents. There was no poetry in my
from prose to poetry.
family. As far back as anyone can remember
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all the male members on both sides of my
There were no poetry books – or books
family were miners. Mexborough was
of any kind in our house. For that I had
defined by mining and, to some extent, still
to use the Carnegie Library which was,
is. Although the town was predominantly
in its own way, a place of escape. But
industrial when I was growing up, all I
before I read poetry on the page I was
had to do was to lift my eyes to see the
exposed to it through the ear. My father
had learned reams of poetry by heart at
Age Battle of the Ings was fought on
school and he used to recite it when he
the meadows just down from where I
was getting ready to go out for a pint. In
lived. The first poem I wrote, Gargoyles in
that way I was introduced to some of the
Winter, was produced in response to the
greatest poems in the language – Shelley,
grotesque stone carvings around the tower
Wordsworth, Tennyson, Keats - by hearing
of Mexborough church. From an early age I
rather than seeing them. As well as being
was aware that the place where I lived had
a miner my father was also a singer and I
a rich and textured past, a past that was
used accompany him to the working men’s
very much alive in the present. Looking
clubs where he’d sit me at a table with a
back, I think the presence of the railway
lemonade and a bag of crisps while he
had something to do with me becoming
sang his way through the Great American
poet. The main line ran just past our house
Songbook. Those songs by the likes of
and I used to lie awake listening as the
Johnny Mercer and Cole porter went into
trains rattled off to destinations east and
the mix too.
west. That opened up the possibility of
Then there was the history. Beyond the recent past, back in the mists, I was
elsewhere, so important to the imagination and to poetry too.
intrigued by the fact that the huge Dark Illustration by Alan Heighton
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I lived in my imagination - a rich inner life
disappeared. But the vitality of the people,
fed by the sights and sounds of the town
the relish for language, the landscape of my
around me, the people of Mexborough
childhood, and the invisible connections
and the broadness of their vowels. Coal
to the past are still there. The trains still
arrived on the doorstep by the ton and
criss-cross my dreams and the poems,
women in scarves still scoured their
inexplicably, keep coming.
windowsills. I went to Mexborough School and soon became aware that Ted Hughes had attended too. At the time I was more interested another poet who had been a pupil there, Harold Massingham, who had been born in Herbet Street and whose father was a also a miner. I read his poem, Black Bull Guarding Apples over and over and developed a strong connection that I was never to feel for Hughes. The importance to me was that two poets – and two excellent poets at that – had attended the same school, walked the same streets, and made the fabled crossing over the ferry.
I think, on reflection, it’s fair to say that Mexborough made me the poet that I am. After living a lifetime in different places all over the country, circumstances have brought me back to live in Mexborough. Much has changed. The Miner’s Strike of the mid-1980’s proved to be a dividing line between the past and present, and the community I grew up in has all but
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IAN PARKS Poet and Mexborough born and bred.
Selected Poems for the DON & DEARNE
A small selection of poems from a collection originally edited by Ian Parks & Paul Dyson. We believe that they stand as a testament to the inspiration & talent which can be found in and around one of England's most beautiful forgotten valleys. Our only regret is that we did not have room for Ian & Paul's full collection.
10 - A Long Line Of Churches 11 - Reflection
SALLY JENKINSON
LYNNE LINDSAY
12 - Beyond Words
JOHN CLARK
13 - Meet Everybody Fight & Die 14 - Whose Hughes? 15 - Nuts
MICK PETTINGER
SHEILA KINGHAM
JOHN BEAL
16 - Past Brodsworth (for Terry Chip) 17 - Return 18 - Here
MICK JENKINSON
DAN RYDER
JO HARRIS
19 - Remembrance FRANK COLLEY 20 - The Room HELEN McCABE 21 - Perception Of Motion
TONY NOON
22 - Springtime Skylark LORIEN WENTWORTH-HOUGHTON 23 - A Seriousness Of Blue Tits 24 - Beesands
SHEILA NORTH
MICHÉLE BECK
26 - Hiroshima & Nagasaki 28 - Illicit Love
BARRY GRIFFITHS
LESLEY MERRIN
30 - Writing The Song Of It (for Barry Hines) RAY HEARNE 33 - Untitled (I'm trying to get the title)
ROB EMIN
A Long Line Of CHURCHES
The woods are never quiet. Sometimes after dark, they may seem to have taken their last sleeping draught of air before sinking into the deep and hush of sleep – but soon, they shudder themselves awake.
These trees, a night watch keepers and curators of the wet earth. That ridge was an old Devon hedge. This here was fields before, and forest again before that. Nothing is so ancient or auspicious as the ground that grew it, not trees or henges or shopping centres or our own selves. And as the morning light tilts in, making eaves and cloisters of the high branches – you can easily see that all these beams, this lovely canopy, is just the latest in a long line of churches built on sacred ground to capture her glow and wonder. A holy show of just what she can do, whenever the moods takes her.
SALLY JENKINSON
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REFLECTION
NOITCELFER
I’ll take a look — you should too! We together would see two faces real and true. One with no expression — other than ‘dead’! The other full of despair and troubled dread. Our future what will it hold? Our lives together — will our plans ever unfold? But ‘no’ they are put to the ‘halt’! Is it that it is all your fault? ‘No’ Stop! — I must not think that way. My man is not wanting in this life to stay. Not wanting to see our ambitions through Our plans seem shattered, what will we do? I need to be strong, To comfort and support. Never in my life such a difficult thought! ‘For better, for worse, in sickness and in health, I just never imagined all of this for myself. All this mental pain I cannot touch Oh my God, I love you so much …
LYNNE LINDSAY
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BEYOND WORDS It’s not all doom and gloom you know? The world goes on, on with this show. This mask, this front that we display, Despite inside feeling dismay. Those niggles trample any strength, That we’ll avoid at any length. Avoid the mire, blend in with herds, Moments like this are beyond words.
These observations, what they’ll bring.
Society’s a boggling mess,
Is perhaps sense to try and change,
That’s how it’s perceived, still this stress,
‘Stead of giving up at this stage.
Its aches and pains, the extreme views,
Accusations, condemnation,
Horseshoe effect, its weight sinews.
Bogged down in this degradation.
Post-Industrial Smog afoot,
And reassurance lost in turn,
Dreams trampled by steel-toe-capped boots.
Moments like this are beyond words.
Journalism still sways and swerves.
Beyond words, beyond these words, hope,
Moments like this are beyond words.
A word for us to use to cope.
Loose rhymes, loose couplets describing,
Try and balance, moderation, Positives, negatives, grating, Grating, taking hold of your head, Sometimes better shown than said, Try to stay calm, stay strong, be heard, You need to be seen, beyond words.
JOHN CLARK
12
Meet Everybody FIGHT&DIE
We blame each other fight
Meet everybody.
and die. Can’t we let sleeping dogs lie.
Shake their hand. We didn’t choose the surroundings If ya don’t like ‘em leave ‘em.
that guided our insides to war,
If ya do,
about theft,
show ‘em
stolen for hunger.
and they might just return the favor
We paint this picture
by making your life interesting.
and face away from the pain,
by laughing and smiling with you for time.
the suffering and decay. It’s time to celebrate and collaborate.
Orgasmic, fantastic, platonic love. There int nowt wrong wi it.
To save the people we hate,
Try.
to save the people we blame and to save ourselves in this wake.
Your mates struggling to get through the day. Many different problems and heart aches to
To create and unslave.
face.
To learn, invent and educate.
Because it’s torturous to live
So meet everybody,
in a world where you have to pay
shake their hand.
to breath, to eat,
Or fight and die.
to have some where to sleep. MICK PETTINGER
13
WHOSE HUGHES? Stalking royally round the corridors, Tossing back the shiny black lock of hair – Tribute to an inspiring teacherAdored by hopeful fifth-form girls But conscious of your superiority, Even then your writing was strong, Earthy, compelling, (Though I did turn one of your poems down For the School Magazine.) Always you saw clearly to the bone And knew the exact word to expose the truth. Sometimes death was with you. We followed your works and, with the rest of the world, Honoured and admired you, proud To be part of the same heritage. Rightly were you acclaimed Poet Laureate. Not bad for a lad from Mexborough!
SHEILA KINGHAM
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NUTS Andy defending orchard, white stallion snorting restless. Over stile, crossing by water butt down through gnarled and twisted boughs.
Promise of river beyond hedge By quiet stream, silken grass path,
Sudden movement and nut thrust away.
and hazel, veined, rounded leaf.
I sheltering ‘neath canopy became target
There ‘neath canopy, resting silent,
for this little man’s amusing war
russet little man, hands praying
as, bouncing from bough to twig, criss-crossing
holding golden, glorious nut.
empty space a shower of nuts came scurrying down, down from well-aimed hand.
Old man tufted ears, and upright,
Inside the laughter welled,
bushy tail, sprung ever to attention.
And cheeky chirrup escaped tender lips;
Alert, a warning waft, gentle as spring,
whiskers flexing in seeming mirth.
eye warily watching my progress. And eye to eye we met —
This hedgerow dandy,
glorious figure; red back, legs arms
gave best his worth,
and hands, fingers softly, tenderly
to disappear cross further bough;
caressing hazel shell, gently tap.
and one last flick of tail was gone.
JOHN BEAL
15
PAST BRODSWORTH (for Terry Chip) It starts with a tightening of the throat
This is where it began
Prickling of the skin of my scalp
Where they paused and they observed
And the hairs tangibly on end
The crossing of the river and the lie of the
Along the back of my arms and neck
land
I am re-living with sensory overload
And they put down tentative roots
My Gran tugging at my coat
Fashioned shelter and protection
Pulling me against the wind
Brought their children, gods and animals
Along the Roman Ridge
Into this valley That we now call home
Before the railways marked the land Before the mines reconstructed our domain
I must have looked so very confused
Go back and back as far as you dare
But she was patient and persistent
To see what then was there
“Look out past Brodsworth towards those
Through famine, plague and flood
moors
Through affluence and plenty
Along the lines of those trees
Incursion and invasion
The ebb and swell of that ancient terrain
The slow collecting together of what we are
You will see traces and remains of what made us In the light down the valley, the air above the fields And the prints of your shoes�
MICK JENKINSON
16
RETURN
There are silences between stops, albeit short ones
& as strangers depart from ill-lit carriages
they swallow the scent of home & smile.
DAN RYDER
17
HERE Perfectly mown lawns bringing a satisfying feeling of ease, But never quite reaching that pure peace I crave. Just when I feel I can almost touch it, It is shattered by that constant, regular flow Of people from very land you can imagine, Pointing, laughing, chattering, shouting.
Remember the daisies and the bold, shameless weeds, Poking their heads through the trodden scuffed ground, Daring to violate that beautiful, near-perfect world Of the immaculate hedge cut to geometric proportions, Not a leaf out of place, here where the cameras click, The children play and the joggers bounce by. Here I am not at peace.
No, my peace comes from elsewhere, where the grass grows freely, Where the daisies dance in the warm gentle breeze And where the roses dare to look, everyone just as different from the last. Even the songs of the birds seem happier here As if they too feel they are truly at peace Here, where the footsteps of the people are almost silent Everyone sits, unspeaking, thinking, here I am at peace.
JO HARRIS
18
REMEMBRANCE I remember you I see your face Every time I close my eyes I don’t know your name Or anything about you All I know is your face I saw it down my barrel Then you fell It was you or me If it was the other way around Would you remember me Remember my face Whenever you close your eyes Is it tattooed inside your eyelids
FRANK COLLEY
19
THE ROOM
Victoria winks at the doxies and the angel turns her head to look away The war hero loosens from attention at the realization that his tomorrow's our yesterday St Pancras oozes thick black smoke with the stench of oil in steam And it wafts under the noses of a past generations king and queen If only we all could possess that gift he gave us, and all be just what is known Oh the memories reflected in those mirrors, which made this house a home Captured snapshots of my family, then here I will never be alone
HELEN McCABE
20
PERCEPTION OF MOTION It is not the float or the prospect of pike.
It is not the flag or the passage of wind.
The content rich space between watcher and watched is the fertile sea.
Ideas buzz here.
Flies over summer water above our line of thought.
Sucked into minds distracted by a perception of motion.
TONY NOON
21
SPRINGTIME SKYLARK The first skylark of spring,
Let us see little birds
Tethered by invisible string,
Dart in and out and whisper words
Whistles his tune full blast
As they go to their nests,
To welcome in the season’s gods,
Again and again, feeding young,
Present and past,
Without much rest.
To gently show away
Wake the flowering trees.
Winter’s clouds ‘til another day.
Let me hear the hum of the bees
For now the sun will shine
As they visit each one
And slowly warm the air and earth
And every little flower.
Until next time.
Spring can’t be long.
Push away those rain clouds.
Skylark, please sing your song.
Let us see that pale blue sky now.
Wake those gods, sing loudly and strong
Feel sun on our skin
Make them hear your sweet plea.
And let the first sounds of springtime
And make them turn the season’s cogs,
Warm us within.
So spring, we see.
Wake the naked hedgerows. Let their tangled veins soon be clothed With flower buds and shoots, As the sap, their lifeblood, rises Up from their roots.
LORIEN WENTWORTH-HOUGHTON
22
g.
A Seriousness of BLUE TITS If a group of crows is a murder, this is what you are.
Babies no bigger than a young child’s toe peck earnestly at Wilkinson’s best fatballs.
If birds had brows, yours would be furrowed.
I focus as you delicately feast, sometimes three to one: you cling
with the most ridiculous of legs and feet, eat, sidestep air, and are gone.
SHEILA NORTH
23
BEESANDS
Rape-seed inhaled with every inward breath, gold dust radiates telling of springtime’s untimely death, branches twist in the suns silhouette, perfectly framed in the blazing, nectarine sunset. A pastoral turquoise and teal cloak, disturbed as foals escapade, racing for the shore. Radiant sea diamonds encrusted in their eyes, disintegrating into the sand, evaporating to be no more. The razor blade edges, caressed by the ebb of the ocean. Gods watchers dance in the amethyst night. Ships glide the tepid waters of summer - guided by a beaming prism of light.
MICHÉLE BECK
24
Hiroshima & NAGASAKI It was the year and the month that I was conceived Tens of thousands of families were bereaved White balls of fire erupted in the sky A hundred thousand perished and were left to die. Death on a Biblical scale, Armageddon, the Apocalypse: In the epicentre of Hiroshima, Everyone was a corpse.
A revelation of death, destruction, And the end of civilisation. Thousands were left with The hereditary effects of leukaemia and radiation. The aftermath was charred detritus, Bodies covered in blood. Women’s bodies, whose skin hung from them like a kimono, Plunged shrieking into the river’s flood.
25
Dropped from the sky at 8.15 am, On August 6th 1945 A four and half ton uranium bomb Named ‘Little Boy’ became live. Released from an aircraft, A B29 named the ‘Enola Gay’. It could have been a game on a computer to play, Instead it exterminated humanity On this fateful day.
Two days later a plutonium bomb was dropped on Nagasaki city, Vaporising half the population: There was no pity. A crime had been committed, Morality had been omitted. A vast mushroom cloud appeared in the sky, Nagasaki boiled as thousands of the population did die, The Bible says ‘Let’s sit on the banks Of the River Babylon and shed tears’ For this fearful happening, seventy years ago.
BARRY GRIFFITHS
26
ILLICIT LOVE Leaving, I write notes of passion hiding them in his socks, under his pillow, in his favourite jacket pocket.
I smudge lipstick letters in red on the mirror, intimate, sensual missives only he’ll understand. When he returns, he smiles, feels the warmth, a connection, feeling safe and loved, until we can meet again
But not this time.
Sitting motionless in the carriage watching the dull day pass by hiding from onlookers tears roll down my face. This love was a guest uninvited but I could not resist.
My soul is lost and troubled I’m walking through a raging storm The pain is physical it hurts like nothing else. Distraught, my heart bursts open the wound bleeds afresh This time I left only one note.
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He’ll return and see it written on scented paper the expectation will be there, he’ll think of me, the warmth and love I give, he’ll feel the connection until he reads it. His face with crumple with the shadow of grief the smile erased.
It says ‘It’s over.’
Writing the note, I felt relief guilty, no more. Waiting for calls which didn’t come, no more. Betraying another woman, no more. A woman who loves him like I do.
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I tell myself ‘the pain will subside, every day I will get stronger.’ As my train nears my destination so does the end. The pain increases, the doubt increases. How can I live my life without him?
Each mile nearer my resolve falters, panic installs itself in my psyche. I’ll phone him, tell him it was a mistake, that I’ve changed my mind, had time to think it over, Warn him before he reads the letter, He’ll laugh, when I tell him it was a joke.
I phone him, he answers. He says ‘It’s over’.
LESLEY MERRIN
29
WRITING THE SONG OF IT (For Barry Hines) Via Heaney, Hughes and Harrison, Yeats and Joyce I circumnavigate my muse’s voice
Like Barry Hines transposing Oscar Wilde I reconcile what won’t be reconciled
My dad used to sing all the time around the house Countless songs of promiscuous pedigree Hymns and ballads, Caruso, Lanza, Locke Big-throated tenors with saucy reputations McCormac, Robeson, then t’ Clancy brothers, Tommy Makem, t’ Dubliners, t’ Wolf Tones, Christy Moore
Tongues warbling forever in my ears, my bones
Only in my later teens would pennies drop A falling away of scales from stony eyes Courtesy of rock and roll, and pop T’ McGarrigles, Dostoyevsky, James and Joni
That every bit of music, note and word Augmenting phrase, consummative syllable
30
Was coaxed, cajoled and wheedled into being By some poor magical innocent like me
No god, no pope, no henry the syphilitic No otherworldly genius, clerk of Oxbridge Oracle or shepherd; some lass or lad Only, some human being, with mucky hands Perhaps, and accent, like mine and those around me
Listeners and learners, if lazier often than good
So many Billies thwarted by some Jud
Apprentices, by pattern and paradigm To temperaments of worked craftworthiness
Donkeying mundane byways across the reliable
Diagonals over tired old expectations
Distillers of the commonplace’s ichor Into the beautiful and intricate Melodies borrowed, tailed and topped, absorbed Re-used, re-vitalised from age to age
31
Alchemical stories’ golden re-tellings; stories Of love and laughter, lamenting, emigration Hunger, anger, yearning, yearning, yearning
The dark well of my own life and history Brimming with at least two buckets full
My Yorkshire words and tongue, my Irish airs A tuning fork between whose prongs I’ve dithered
Desperate for harmonies, surfing the hum Of my own echo’s resonant continuum
Those pulsing waves, unstoppable choruses Of affirmation oozing the song of UZ
That’s what drives me, outing that inward schism’s Undiminishing rhythm, making it rhyme
I circumnavigate my muse’s voice Via Heaney, Hughes and Harrison, Yeats and Joyce
Like Barry Hines transposing Oscar Wilde I’ll reconcile what won’t be reconciled
RAY HEARNE
32
UNTITLED (I'm Still Trying To Get The Title) The cats are around, In perfect surround sound Howling and bawling, Hissing, caterwauling Amplified yelling and magnified yawls Echoing off of the silent brick walls
Then distant dogs, woken up from their sleep in dismay Disappointedly discovering masters away Belching barks to the sky More barks in reply Yodelling and yowling Dog-coughing and growling Wailing and weeping Losing interest and sleeping
Then the blackbird, the robin, the thrush and the wren Breaking the silence once again Singing and laughing Chirping and chaffingÂ
And insects arise Wasps, bees, crickets and flies Buzzing and clicking And droning and ticking
33
And larger things disturbing leaves and the grass, Belch and rustle, rummage, snuffle and snort as they pass Sniffing here, sniffing there sniffing every which way Sniffing flesh, sniffing bone, sniffing damp and decay
And under the water, and under the soil Creatures bristle, beware, creatures trouble and toil The splash and the slither, the creak and the croak The dart, grab and swallow, the rattle, the choke
Now the cars rust and rot. Beetles spiders, cockroaches Roads buckle and crack, vegetation encroaches Livestock runs wild, structures crumble and fall And no-one passes comment. There’s no-one at all.
ROB EMIN
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Find out more about the TED HUGHES TRAIL at www.t ed hu g he s pro je c t. o r g
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The Next Generation DONCASTER'S YOUNG POETS As you can imagine, the poetry of Ted Hughes has influenced education throughout Doncaster. Here we offer an all too brief selection of poems from the children of Mexborough Academy and Doncaster's ground-breaking XP School. With an average age of just 12 years old, we think you'll agree that the future of poetry in Doncaster is in safe hands.
XP SCHOOL 40 - Sunrise EMILY PONCIA 42 - Fading Light 43 - The Waves 44 - Haunted 46 - Wolf
TOBY WILLIAMSON
AZRIEL CHAN
KELSEA ROPER
BEN SMITH
48 - Storm
ZARA YAMANI
MEXBOROUGH ACADEMY 50 - Below The River
CONNOR McKEE
51 - Night On The River 52 - The Silver Sun
JOHANNA BECERRA
53 - The Magic Moon 54 - The Dull Moon
BROOK FOSTER
CERYS OGLEY
LUCY JOHNSON
SUNRISE A looming emptiness hung in the sky, As darkness consumed even the vastness of oceans, abyssal and unfathomable, concealed with a lurking darkness,
The ominous charcoal clouds were on the Brink of consuming the land’s entirety. A soft amber glow began to flicker, Forcing darkness to slowly creep away in a silent retreat,
Spreading into the desolate sea. The fiery glow danced around the sky, Leaving its delicate primrose and vermilion footprints. The sun emerged from its hiding, creating a beacon of hazy light.
A luminous explosion of colours broke through the bleak sky, Creating columns of blinding light, Exiling the darkness of the heavy sky.
It was as if a volcano had erupted in the sky, Camouflaging it in molten red and fiery Yellow, Dispelling the ash like clouds.
40
The sublime sight devoured the night, Cloaking the last dregs of darkness, In a wash of glowing colours, Creating a feeling of nostalgic serenity.
As the day began to emerge, So did the alluring creatures of the sea, A gust of life filled the sky, While all marine lifeforms timidly began to materialise.
Birds swooped down from the sky, Snapping at the craven fish, Who swam with their dazzling colours reflected off crystal blue water.
All at once a sense of tranquillity returned, The sun shone a pure yellow, The sea sparkled in a mystical fashion, And the world was at peace.
EMILY PONCIA
41
FADING LIGHT I crest the high hill In the fast-fading light,
Ancient trees Shade the ancient path.
Bird song on the air, Carried from afar
But now sinking Rapidly below the horizon.
In the silent dusk. And the sun:
Great streaks of colour Illuminate the sky:
Great ball of fire Hanging in the sky
Red, orange, yellow, Merging into darkness
Giver of all life, Vanquisher of darkness,
As the skyline consumes The mighty star.
Taken by the darkness, There to be chained for the night.
TOBY WILLIAMSON
42
THE WAVES They are the waves; frustrated, harming, fluctuating shadows, navigating the yawning, navy sea. The treacherous ocean, Tempered-cool, beguiles the night sky, whilst innocent, Ships are taken by the waves, lurking, liquid predators.
Their bodies’ envelop the world with a translucent blue, Yet, darker secrets are held within their deep, sapphire prisons. Ripped ships and sail boats, mangled corpses line the sand, Secrets forgotten, memories fragmented, finally, souls lost.
Not all is dark and mystifying; as the torch of the sky, Emerges above the horizon, the oblivions above transform: Vast mixes of colour, crimson and gold, layer the blue, The sun lighting a beacon, wielding light around and above.
At mid-day, aquatic creatures rise above and ride the waves, Dancing side-by-side. Beneath the waves’ expanse, Flush reds and greens, vibrant glows of moving colour, Fins and tails, gills and scales, crustaceans and more.
Forever bound, the waves are to the sea, puppets of the Great bodies of the sun and the moon. A part of nature, Destroyers of sailors, guardians of the sea. Lest we forget who they are; they are the waves.
AZRIEL CHAN
43
HAUNTED Silent. Except for the gushing of the river, Which sits below the hanging canopy. No sound. No movement. Nothing.
The silence unbearing. The stillness unnatural. The canopy shelter, To the now hidden creatures.
The wind whips the trees, Breaking the silence. Tearing the silence. The canopy explodes.
The toucan’s song, Illuminates. Creatures of blue and red, Are seen everywhere.
Up in the trees he sits. Alone. Watching the life below.. Fish leaping from the water.
44
He swoops down. The fish lifeless in his clutches, And life in the canopy splits. It falls to a dull, dark silence.
The red and blue is lost, The toucan’s song gone. An apex predator. Deadly as day, mysterious as night.
He is alone. As dark as white, As light as black. A mysterious creature.
The eagle. Haunts the canopy.
KELSEA ROPER
45
WOLF The sun glistens through the pinpoked tree canopy, Gracing our immaculate fur, the warm breeze sweeps our faces.
Our pelt, a flood of colour. An arrangement of the brightest yellows and the darkest browns.
The forest, vibrant and green, A sanctuary of life.
Our hunting ground. . A buffet of the weak.
We hunt together, as one, Running with the wind, a family.
Our acute eyes scour the area like a heatseeking radar, Scanning for an easy meal.
A helpless elk, Separated from the herd,
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Instantly, we begin to surround our dumbfounded prey, As we stealthily but swiftly creep towards it.
Managing to only slightly tear the elegant animal, We chase through the undergrowth.
Dodging the vein-like tree roots, Our instinctive eyes focused on the target.
The smell of the wounded flesh fills our senses, Spurring us onwards.
The torn prey becomes sluggish, weak. Taking the opportunity, we attack with all our numbers. No mercy.
The decomposing corpse casts evil shadows in the thicket of the wood, Marking our dominance upon unforgiving forest.
As we howl under the moonlight.
BEN SMITH
47
STORM A churning sea awash with colour Each wave another work of art
Wicked amethyst black clouds Rolling over the blue black waves A great army prepares for war
The boat Dwarfed by the vast monstrosity of the ocean
Her hull cracking Cruelly mirroring the broken spirits of her crew
So close So close to sinking into the soft sands of the seabed The soft sands of death
And all the while the waves The waves! Unmerciless in their anger
Without warning The clouds are consumed by the endless sky Melting into the ether
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Revealing the cyan blue sea Once a ravaging beast of the night Now a tame creature of the day
The sky Merged with the water Painting a picture entirely in blue
The boat Breathes a gentle sigh Then retreats like a wounded soldier
Into the mist Into the eternal seas of time
ZARA YAMANI
49
Below The RIVER
I am swimming in the river The ducks ripple the water As they gracefully approach me The summer breeze slowly blows The reeds towards the water.
I am surrounded by wildlife as I dip my head below Underneath the river all life is dead Dead fish and rubbish all in sight
I cannot compare the beauty of the foliage above From the absence of life below My mind is blurred by the fascinating thought of the place Above to contemplate the sadness of below the river.
CONNOR McKEE
50
Night On THE RIVER It is night on the river, the static crystal clear river reflects the glistening moonlight, A fox lay on the bank his blank black eyes stared into the river as he moved closer to take a drink.
The once peaceful river rippled and came alive with wildlife Frogs rushed along bank, croaking, in a hurry, Small fish emerged from the river landing back in with a small plop, A badger rushed from the tall treeline beyond the bank Splashing into the river Using its hind legs to propel himself Through the cold water.
The rats come out from their holes Swiftly swimming to the other side. A chilling gust of wind rushed past, The fox looked up and the river was peaceful again It is night on the river,
BROOK FOSTER
51
THE SILVER SUN Up in the night sky Shining down and glistening high Glowing light upon the waters And fathers walking with their daughters
Like a sun with a silvery outer lining While the stars in the sky keep shining They’re jealous of your beauty But you just know you are doing your duty of lighting up the gloomy world like a great white, light-struck pearl.
Even though the bats screech You still remain to keep your peace It calms me when I am upset And it makes me happy when comes sunset.
As the orange light arrives on the horizon You’ll know your job is done ‘Goodbye, moon’ said I I’ll see you again when night is nigh.
JOHANNA BECERRA
52
THE MAGIC MOON
A dim light shine through the night, It’s the moon. The round ball of grey sand ceyGives the world light at night, His magic powers show as he changes shape Waxing and waning.
Reflecting in the sky is the sun Who turns to a ghost at dusk And sleeps while morning, Everyone dozes off as the magic moon hypnotises us The world’s asleep, the moon fades away for another day, As the sun rises it is back out to play.
CERYS OGLEY
53
The Dull MOON The moon never seems to shine bright Like the sun and twinkling stars With craters like bullet wounds Just waiting to be filled
The shining stars watch the lifeless moon Like a movie along with earth as an audience.
Every morning the moon will go back to hiding Now as the people of earth go back to their daily lives Looking for the sun to bring them light
But the moon will soon return Greeting the world with a family of stars
Waiting for the cycle to reappear again
LUCY JOHNSON
54
Illustrations by Alan Heighton
horne&draper Everyday Audacity.
FOXY MEX ©2016