Sponsored by "Walter Henry's Bookshop" & "David Wyre" Jeweller & Engraver
Festival Week - The Plough Poets and Musicians
A great night was had on the Kathleen & May by all those lucky enough to come to the Poetry Night in festival week. Martin Parker was in charge and led the evening in great style despite having the burden of judging the Poetry Competition weighing heavily on his shoulders. He assures me he 'will never judge a poetry competition again'.
There were many fine poems read on the night as well as songs from Kevin and Richard, regular musicians at the Plough Open Mic Poetry Nights. Next dates for the Plough nights are September 13th/October 11th/November 8th.
Poetry Competition 2007
Thank you to all the poets who entered the competition. As they arrive I have the great pleasure of reading the poems before packing them off to our judge for the year. As with every year they were many and varied with almost every aspects of life touched on.
Shortlisted poets were Sarah Willans, James Bell, Marion Delfgou, Stephanie Diamond, Joyce Moon and Jeremy Bell.
I must admit I enjoy sending off poems to competitions myself - although too involved in this competition to enter. I would just like to repeat my thanks to everyone who entered; my commiserations to those who didn't win, my thanks to the shortlisted poets who were able to read on the night and my congratulations to the winners and of course the judge who did a fine job.
Winners
1st Prize: Sarah Willans with her poem... 'Baling'
2nd Prize: James Bell with his poem... 'On the local train to Kumero'
3rd Prize: Marion Delfgou with her poem... 'The Tappit Hen'
Baling
The hay coming home
the sweet summer smell of it
the value of your investment may go down
a friend may turn against you
the low bleat of sheep in the barn.
This is not what you expected.
In this street, day and night are alike
the tang of steel riddles the air
the knowing, in the first rip of winter,
that plenty is there for the taking
and things are not, never as they seem.
that on the edge of spring,when
the last bale is broken, all will begin again.
The cycle is broken, it runs away,
ends fly loose and whip in the wind
we run and can never return
say that somewhere, somewhere,
the hay's coming home
On the local train to Kumero
Settled at last in a window seat
I watch as Karuisawa slides away.
The window view becomes
paddy field and foothills of gingko,
foliage that clothes the furthest reaches
of Mount Asama's great bulk.
Today its craters puff out stray whiffs
of smoke, continued suggestion that
greater power sleeps within
its black volcanic rock.
On the seats alongside us
some Japanese ladies cannot contain
their mirth any longer; flap their fans
at the sight of a gaijin with a beard
and wearing a Panama hat
on the local train to Kumero;
a town that does not exist
in official guides, or on tourist maps.
The ladies would flap their fans harder
if they knew I'd slept last night
in comfort, on futon and tatami.
The ladies mirthful fans would
reach a frenzy if they also knew
I'd made this trip before, a few days ago,
when I ate miso soup and two plates
of yaki soba at a favoured restaurant
and bought my Panama hat
at a men's outfitters in Kumero.
The Tappit Hen
Come up my lovely, sit thee down near,
And the Tappit Hen story, I'll set it out clear
When our good Queen Anne sat on the throne
A young black hen called Abbotsham home.
The monks of the abbey fed her with beer,
The best of their corn, cosseted her dear
So she laid them brown eggs and never did roam
Until a French clipper chanced in on the foam,
Beached at Peppercombe dashed in the storm.
The matie all landedand went in a swarm
To find food and shelter for such was their need...
Came to the abbey - and 'oh!' the black deed! -
One saw the plump henny and chased her around
Trying to ketch her. A good meal he'd found!
How she ran, how she squawked, her red legs went apace
With all of the matelots joining the race.
Out came all the monks, leaving their prayer
To join in the racin' for the black hen there,
Around the abbey and over the stile
Away they went running for many a mile.
The abbot himself girded up for the race,
The clippers own captain set out a good pace.
Tumbling and scrambling, shoutin' in French
All chasin' each other; Oh my dear wench
Don't ever tangle with 'Frenchies' me dear
They all prefer wine to Devonshire beer!
At last all came panting back to the ship
With the fat black hen almost in grip,
When out from Horn's Cross came a loud call
A strong 'cock-a-doodle' sound over the wall...
The little hen started, and darted about,
Back thro' all the legs... not ever in doubt
That she was now saved. Her life was made clear
For she'd found at long last a good chanticleer.
Oh she escaped them, left them in full flight
And down on the beach they had a rare fight,
The monks and the sailors banging away
While the good tappit hen in a new nest lay.
So - the beach here's called a 'Monkswin' right to today
And the black chickie's 'Frenship' have come here to stay.