Poems

On Platform 1, you will find some illustrated poems to delight, challenge, inspire and cheer you up on your journey...

Autumn 2016

 

‘A Place such as this’ by Lucy Stevens

 

This poem is a moving account of Lucy Stevens’ recent visit to the ‘Jungle’ camp for refugees and migrants in Calais.

 I asked my father

to break my heart

with what breaks His.

What then

shatters the heart of God?

A place such as this,

where men would build razor wire fences

in places where comfort should be.

Where people clear shit from poisoned land

to make room

for a home

that even the rats avoid.

And cast themselves instead on the fire.

Where a boy with yellowed skin

holds on to me so fiercely

I can only think

it's his mother he's gripping

really.

His eyes are unforgettable.

Green. There when I close mine.

A place such as this

where a lawyer in hand me downs,

taut in his rage,

cites the human rights act

with fluid tongue,

then puts a hand on my arm

and says sorry

for getting cross.

Something breaks in my chest.

Where a man with nothing

smiles and nods

at a uniformed giant

who has only been taught

to sneer and spit and crush underfoot.

Where the trousers cast off

by well fed men

from overseas

can not be filled here

and are: Just. No. Use.

Where a deftly placed "sir"

lifts a man.

But can rarely be found in this filth.

Where a country

who has rejected and spat on them

is raised up on the lips of men:

The land where the sir is abundant!

Just over there!

Where the love of many has grown cold.

A place such as this

where confusion is naked,

etched on gaunt faces

"Why won't they help us?"

Where lawyers and teachers

and entrepreneurs,

academics and doctors

and men of the land

are driven by bulldozers

Deeper

into the dark heart of this place.

Where tomorrow's men are forgotten,

made seedless.

Or fodder for sinister minds.

Where one oppressor

is replaced by another -

a ghastly medusa.

And refuge from her

remains elusive.

Where the eyes of a child who's seen too much

are bleached of life.

Until he smiles.

And you see the boy who was.

And the possibility of what could be.

In a place such as this

where hope pulses still

In the smiles and hellos.

In the invitations to tea.

In the rich smelling restaurant.

And cheery corner shop.

Where people call out greetings.

In the spirit of people who cannot give up.

In the coat that fits just right.

In the perfect tool for the job.

In the cleared scrub and pitched tent.

In the laughter of a boy on his bike,

wind in his hair.

In the kindness of a stranger.

In the handshake of a friend.

In the slap on your back.

In the sharing of a joke.

In the horseplay of teens.

In the music that draws them

Closer.

In a softly spoken sir.

In an answered prayer.

In the love that burns brightly

in this place.

In the broken heart of God. 

  

Spring 2016

 

Autumn/Winter 2015

Change This

by Jonathan King

 

Climate change

Sea Change

Leader change

Lane change

Small change

Baby change

Spare change

Change change

Change dot org.

Change minds

Change hearts

Change seats

Change parts

Change channels

Change tunes

Changing rooms.

Change teams

Change times

Change rhythm

Change rhymes

Change for change sake.

Change plans

Change places

Change planes

Change spaces

Change trains.

All change please………..

Summer 2015

 

 'Untitled' by Candyce Lange

Photo provided by Charmaine McKissock 

In the dream, death was my

                         mother’s destination

                                      all the small packages

                                      and a hatbox

                        the house so quiet on

                        Sunday afternoon

It is the same as the night quiet

                       hold on to that thought

                        that quiet

                                      it will carry us through.

Winter 2015: John Morgan on Platform 1

Four poems by John Morgan:

DRAGON

George killed the dragon, so the fables say,
The fabled knight slew him in holy kind of way.

But I know a different story to what fable’s say,
The dragon really slew St George in a unholy kind of way.

George rode his great destria lance and sword in hand,
He charged at the dragon, but the dragon made his stand.

He melted Georges lance and poor horse, then burned St George to death.
Then smiling, he said “what a silly fool” under his fiery breath.

Despite calling the victor of this poem, of a male gender, her name was in fact Mildred, my humble apology to the good lady.


KINGS GOOSE

Blue eye’s ragged white down, a royal waggle minus the crown.
A gold regal beak serrated and worn, with similar webbed feet, one slightly torn.
He came over to greet us with a hiss and glare, nonchalantly gave us cold regal stare.
Who are these persons my realm intruded, no doubt this problem will soon be concluded.
Then he changed his mind and turned his back as to say,
Ignore these peasants they must go away.
Ho poor goose protecting your throne, where is your Gander why so alone
Did she pass on or take to the skies, do we see sadness in your majestic blue eyes.
You can cuss, hiss, threaten and strut but your imperial
Highness you cannot fool us.


TO

To put on paper with quill and pen,
And to write the feelings I had then
To cry tears that run the ink,
Through pain and laughter to make me think.
To watch in stark reality,
In black and white my thoughts to see.
Then to put it away on a dusty shelf
And read it occasionally to please oneself.


THE BRISTOLIAN

With lighted front in green she came,
Through sulphurous steam and threatened rain.
She in pride and me in joy, of remembered times when a boy.
Pebbles dropped down blackened funnel, fire bright steam lighting tunnel.
Wave to the Driver, and Fireman, Guardsman at the rear,
Clitter, Clatter, Clitter, Clatter, whistle blowing loud and clear.
Phantom faces at the window’s carriages painted cream and red,
Engine towing, whistle blowing, signals green for go a head.
Just for a moment, the smell of burned coal ember,
The Bristolian steam train, Wivenhoe Station 1999, 5th of September.
(WAS THIS ALL A DREAM)
 
Poet's statement: 'I love the depth and mystery of visual art, poetryand folksong.  Each in its own form tell a story,
true, false or elaborate, often depicting raw human
feeling and frailties.  I hope you enjoy what you
read and see.'

To Contact John: 07963 304046 orsassmog@gmail.com

Summer to Autumn 2014: Hilary Lazell and Martin Newell

 

Wivenhoe artist Hilary Lazell will be contributing a beautiful new illustrated poetry poster “Leaves Down the Line” on Platform 1. Hilary has been scribbling away with pens, pencils, ink and paper for most of her life.  The combination of words and pictures is fundamental to all her work and this poster is no exception.  “Leaves Down the Line” illustrates lines by poet Martin Newell.

The images with poetry are available as A1 posters and a very nifty little advent calendar in a jewel case. Ideal presents. Contact Hilary Lazell:  hilarylazell@hotmail.com

 

 

  Winter/Spring 2014

The Mice

by  Jo Gould

One night, when we were sleeping,
the mice got into the garage.
It’s easy to overlook such tiny trespassers.
They found the things we had chosen to forget,
things we had inherited.
My mother’s sewing patterns,
Vogue, Butterick, Simplicity, and Style.
A little history of fashion in a bin bag.

It begins in black and white,
elegant dresses with fitted jackets or little boleros.
Then hemlines rise and waistlines wander;
colour arrives in autumnal hues.
Narrow trousers grow wide then straight again.
There are pencil skirts and panelled skirts,
tiers and frills and gathered waists.
I recognise my childhood outfits,
the peter pan collars and puff sleeves.
A bridesmaid’s dress in lilac satin,
then all those teenage fashions.

So many damp Saturday afternoons,
windows misted, and the murmur of the radio.
The floor a big papery jigsaw, weighed down by
ash trays and displaced by the dog.
Then the friendly hum of the sewing machine
with its little guiding light;
the prick of pastel headed pins at the fitting.

So many years have passed,
and now I rediscover her dusty legacy.
The mice have made good use of it,
worked away and raised their little families.
Some things are so hard to part with,
but the mice carry no baggage.
If only I could learn from them.

On Entering the Eel Catcher’s Workshop 

by  Alex Toms 
  

A bell jangles above your head. In the gloom

it sounds like shattered glass.

Invisible fingers stroke your face;

you brush them aside, realise it’s only

a spider’s zip wire. As your eyes adjust,

shrouded shapes reveal themselves:

round shouldered barrels bound for London,

an outboard motor

that’s stuttered itself into silence.

In the corner, an abandoned punting pole

puts down new roots. Unfinished willow traps

sprawl on the workbench, gaping mouths

already hungry. Beside them lies

a sly knife, its blade spotted with sap.

On the walls, former eel catchers

regard you sternly behind dust-grimed glass.

And right at the back of the shop,

glimpsed only for a second,

a look and a glittering smile

from the Eel Catcher’s lovely daughter

before her slender form

dives deeper into the darkness.

For Hilary (who watched for Kingfishers)

by  Patricia Bloom

 

Kindred spirit to

her chosen river god,

she darted silverquick

through shadow, shine.

No need of flame and cobalt,

her shy colours shone

with radiance of spirit

with gentleness

and grace.

Beloved friend,

captive

to a bone-thin cage,

I held you, sensing

memory’s flutter

of how once it was

to fly.

 

  Winter/Spring 2014

'An Essex Calendar'  

Poems by Martin Newell and Illustrations by Hilary Lazell

 

September/October 2013

 

‘Insomnia’ by Jo Gould
Illustrated by C. McKissock

Suddenly waking in darkness I remember
I have forgotten to take the sleeping pill.
Silence.
The digital clock glares red, three thirteen.
I seem to remember everything I ever wanted
to forget.
Thoughts follow thoughts.
I think about not thinking until too tired to
sleep.
Time passes slowly, the red numbers gradually
accumulating.
Eventually darkness lightens.
A bird starts to sing.
I forget that I’ve forgotten to take the sleeping
pill.
Thoughts slur into emptiness.
The alarm goes off.

Trained artist, Jo Gould, loves living in Wivenhoe. She spends time writing poetry, painting from nature, getting dirty in the garden, and likes reading in the evening.

 

 

  July/August 2013

 

Poems by Jane Ostler

 

Sweet Orange

When your train leaves, close your eyes

and see the colour of oranges,

or the colour of the sunny sea.

The journey of the sweet orange,

a circumnavigation of the globe,

from California, Spain or Greece,

will fill your coat or pram with sunshine.

I can hold a planet in my hand,

peel it and share it with you. 

 

 This poem reflects the exhibition themes, crossing geographical and emotional borders. 

 

About Jane Ostler

"I was born in Tonbridge in 1958. I studied at Bath Academy of Art, Corsham 1976-1980 and Goldsmiths, London 1983-5.  In 1987 I was Printmaker in Residence at Peterborough General Hospital. My husband Paul and I moved to Essex with our three young children in 1996.  In 2003 I was Artist in Residence for National AIDS DAY at Colchester Borough Council and since 2007 I have worked as Art Development Officer at the Level Best ArtCafe, Colchester. My art studio is a small space in the back of our garage.   I work on large paintings in the garden in summer when the weather permits."

Contact Jane: 07941837433 email: janeostler@gmail.com

 

 

Poems by Judith Wolton

 

Dangerous flirtation 

 

Here’s  where the Essex girl dabbles her toes in the sea
flinging her marshy skirts carelessly wild and free,
trailing their reed fringed hems in the salt and the sand,
deep seamed rivulets gleam as they stitch through the land
embroidering purple sea lavender, horned poppy’s gold,
 soft spikes of samphire vividly green and bold.
 grey satin mud pierced by curlews and shanks,
while worm coils spiral and knot the length of its banks.

Be warned - its a dangerous flirtation to challenge the moon,
for the tides and the winds will conspire to tug at her skirts,
breach her defences and drown out her land at spring
and at neap, flooding the channels, the dykes and the ditches,
ripping apart with a moon-pull those fanciful stitches.

Guarding these acres of saline pasture, the farm
stands firm on the hilltop, way out of harm.

 

 

Egret at Dusk

 

White in the steel of the water;
white in the red of the marsh plants;
white in the green of the grasses;
white in his winter grazing.
Porcelain wings held
by the strength of his breast bone -
white his curving mantle.

With sand-eel neck and back-flung legs,
he floats on the dusk: a ghost
over the saltmarsh: landing
up to his black knees; standing
mirrored,  thin legs quivering,
long toes riddling:
he plunges the sword of his beak
through the pool’s surface –

his perfect reflection stirred
in the evening light.

 

 

May 2013

Poems by Martin Newell … Illustrated by Hilary Lazell

The Morning Train

The Hythe has had a shower today

Sluiced the weary night away

The platform, wet from recent rain

Is standing for the London train

In sight of automatic gates

The backbone of the nation waits

The clouds are hanging out to dry

For soon the sun will scale the sky

With gelled-up hair, the younger chaps

And too much aftershave, perhaps

In crumpled jackets, scruffy shoes

Go late to jobs, they'd hate to lose

Yawning then, they find a place

To hide themselves in cyber-space

Sequestered in a comfort zone

Of laptop, i-pod, mobile phone

Somewhere near to Seven Kings

A salesgirl thinks engagement rings

Drains her polystyrene cup

And then, reluctantly, moves up

Recalling waterfront estates

In seats not made for vertebrates

For in the hour or so it takes

The backbone of the nation aches.

The Evening Train

Past Ingatestone the wheels complain

A whine of brakes, the evening train

Has stopped in woods beside the line

Autumnal now but clear and fine

With heaters ticking under seats

The sleepers dream suburban streets

Pints of beer and pubs and home

On mattresses of memory foam

Near end of week, within an hour

At Colchester, the water tower

Informs them that they're almost back

With coats already off the rack

Impatient in the aisles, they'll wait

The backbone of the nation, late

Yet grateful for such welcome sights

As partners, buses, taxi lights

And those few travellers left behind

Can all stretch out and never mind

The last few empty miles somehow

The horse can smell the stable now

And farther up the Colne somewhere

A whiff of dampness in the air

Reminds them vaguely, on the way

The Hythe had had a shower today.

Martin Newell (b.1953) is a writer, poet and musician. First published in The Guardian in 1984, he wrote regularly for The Independent titles for 15 years, before taking up his current posts as resident poet for The Sunday Express,Saturday columnist for the East Anglian Daily Times and contributor to the Suffolk magazine. 

Hilary Lazell is an illustrator and children's author. As an illustrator of books, CD and DVD covers she has received a number of prestigious commissions, the most recent of which was from the Royal Opera House. 

March 2013

Poem by Alice Bell, a year 4 pupil in Broomgrove Junior School.

February 2013

Selkies

Winter 2013

MW Bewick

MW Bewick lives in Wivenhoe. He is a journalist, writer and musician, but not always in that order. His Possible Fictions blog can be found at mwbewick.wordpress.com. He also presents the Strange Brew show on Radio Wivenhoe.

Autumn 2012

Laura Kirwan

Laura Kirwan writes poetry, short stories, and is now working on a novel. When stuck for ideas she loves to eat cake or go for walks in Wivenhoe bluebell woods.

August 2012

Mary McQueen

Mary McQueen lives in the North, but visits her daughter & grandsons in the South. She reads a lot, writes a little; cooks & bakes to feed her friends, who also love her home-made cards.

June 2012

Culpeper's remedies: background to Juliet Lockhart's work.

May 2012

Alex Toms

Alex is a regular contributor to OTR, a Wivenhoe poet and has had several of her poems published. If you fancy reading more, you can find another in the new 'Poetry Wivenhoe 2011' collection.

March 2012

Broomgrove School

Poetry by Phoebe Southgate and Seth Barlow, both  pupils of Broomgrove Junior School.

February 2012

Leanne Haynes & George McKissock

Dr Leanne Haynes is a photographer and poet, with a particular interest in St Lucien literature (she has just attained a Ph.D. on the subject).  Her poems have been published in a number of London magazines and her photographs have appeared on the Lonely planet website, as well as forming part of an exhibition at the University of Essex.

George McKissock is a station adopter, poet and an all round lovely person.

Christmas special 2012

Alex Toms

Alex is a Wivenhoe poet and has had several of her poems published. If you fancy reading more, you can find another in the new 'Poetry Wivenhoe 2011' collection.

December 2011

Hazel Humphreys

Unabridged version available to read in WDTL in December.

November 2011

Martin Newell

A poem by Martin Newell, also printed in November's edition of WDTL.

October 2011

Martin Malone

Winner of the Wivenhoe Poetry Prize 2011