Journeying into poetry (From Stroud News and Journal)

Journeying into poetry

FEATURES

THIS Thursday is National Poetry Day, with poetic events taking place all over the country in theatres, clubs and schools.

To mark the event in Stroud the News & Journal last week invited entries for a poetry competition with the theme Journeys, in the hope of encouraging the wealth of literary talent in the Stroud Valleys to pen a poem.

The response was magnificent, with a vast range of interpretations of the theme, all differing wildly. The quality, however, was consistently high and the judge, Stroud poet Adam Horovitz, had a tough time picking out the winners.

Top was Nisco (Roger Bacon), of Arlingham, who receives a copy of the New Penguin Book of English Verse, worth 20, generously donated by Stroud Bookshop, for his Longfellow-like exploration of the Severn Bore.

Second was Sheila Simmons, of Court Way, Stroud and equal third were Naomi Hull, of Burleigh, and Paul Hansford, of Birches Drive, Stroud.

Their poems are published below. Congratulations not only to the winners but also to everyone who entered.

IT'S a bore.....

Twice a day I make the journey, Coming from the South to Gloucester: Can't remember when I did not, Can't conceive of having not to, Can't control its varied nature. Sometimes, not a hint of trouble, Slipping by serene and tranquil, It is over, barely noticed. Other times, for other reasons, All is angst and fraught frustration; Caused they say by lunar madness, Causing me to rage in anger, Causing me to foam and splutter. Unconstrained in the beginning, All is well, and driven onwards, One can roll along quite freely. As however volume builds up, As the way constricts and narrows, So one hits the snarl of rush hour. Cloistered by the coast at Cardiff, Sandwiched by the strands of Weston, We have reached the Bristol Channel. Pushed beneath two Severn crossings, Past the concrete slab of Oldbury, Past the lorry lea (the M5), Past the bunkered block of Berkeley, Squeezed between the shores at Sharpness. Eager now we journey onwards, By the virgin grounds of Slimbridge, O'er the mazy sands of Frampton, Round the horseshoe bend at Newnham, Via Framilode and Longney, On to Minsterworth we travel. Minsterworth is where I gather Strength to wrestle with the surfers, Strength to drench unwary watchers, Strength to get me through to Gloucester, So that finally it's Over. Twice a day I'll make the journey, Underneath the gaze of May Hill, Through the countryside of Harvey, Filled with memories of Gurney, And the strains of Howells and Finzi, To the tower and shrine of Gloucester, Until finally it's over.

Roger Bacon

Facing up to it

Small boats scutter out of our way quacking and splashing, up goes the bridge with a fanfare, chains that clank; we move from the dock's wide expanse to squeeze ourselves into the strict canal.

Ahead, smooth water, reedy banks, we tower above fishermen, swans, moored craft, wave at tow-path ramblers in woolly hats, at outraged dogs. Then we reach Sharpness; enter the big lock,

move into the swirling race of Severn, difficult as birth, our vessel, no longer confined but dangerously free, dwarfed by the river's width, the spans of two bridges. We are aware of distant shores, other lives, currents that rule us,

have long forgotten the domesticity of docks and quay, those friendly clusters of red-brick warehouses, the Cathedral beyond glimpsed like an inspiration. We are moving towards our destination of salt water,

pushing through slapping waves, wind in our faces, the constraints of the flat canal are left behind, those little excitements of locks and bridges, children that raced us along the bank,

all that busyness banished from mind as the estuary widens, the Welsh shore fades from sight. Islands come into view, cormorants skim the waters; we must bring ourselves to face the immensity of open sea.

Sheila Simmons

Interrupted Journey "Trains into and out of Waterloo are subject to delay because of...a body on the line at Basingstoke" (Station notice)

A body on the line at Basingstoke - the train to Waterloo has been delayed. You'll have to wait; the plastic bag brigade are clearing up and trying not to choke.

Commuter suicide's no news to us. We don't suspect foul play; it's by the book. But one more driver, terror in his look, takes the day off, wishing he drove a bus.

Neighbours or strangers, those who saw him leap could never know what so possessed his mind. His unwished legacy - they long may find the image of his death disturb their sleep.

The quiet desperation of a life brought by that final step over the rim to its conclusion - weep no tears for him, his torment's over. Who will tell his wife?

Paul Hansford

Midnight Ferry

From Paris, Chartres, Tours, Le Mans, cars hurtle northward in the dark and rest upon the quay at Caen, silently waiting to embark.

The ship - a blazing dragon - spews forth its lunch of caravan, of lorry packed with Scottish booze, or British tat and contraband,

and crams more lorryloads on board - wine from Provence and grapes from Spain - then swallows an impatient horde of tourists wanting home again.

Alone upon the darkened quay remains one car, its dozy driver dreaming of camembert and brie, of Beaujolais and steak au poivre.

Naomi Hull.