Sheppey and Sittingbourne Writers

In this section we present poems from our members chosen from their publications or from ours.  We have a selection from the Newsletters and from the workshops we run. 

The editor is giving this a try so bear with him please. 

I have put a copy of The Turval and the Grobble on the site as a PDF but it is quite large and will take some time to download.  Give it a go - but if it takes too long then I will split it up into Cantos and put them on line instead.  Try this anyway click HERE to start.

 

Outside the Walls by J Tipp.

This little green book of poems is full of reflections of a man whose walk with God has been and still is a guiding light in his life.  The poems in this book examine that relationship both personal and general with some thoughtful and often delightful insights.  As editor of this site I am privileged to publish one of his poems.

 

Shalom

Shalom means peace in wholeness

Peace means letting go and resting

Resting and letting others do the doing

In this we all strive and fail, we don't let go.

Jesus said, 'Come to me and rest', let me.

But we come and want to do, and do some more

Now is your time of reflection and seeking

Now is your time for shalom, peace in wholeness

Rest and let him hold you and guide you

Listen to him and let him do the doing for you.

Find peace in just being and be made whole.

 

 

I like the gentleness of this poem and yet within it is a power of reasoning and comfort that gives strength through insight.

This poem by Gordon Henderson was sent to us for the christmas period but I was sure that although it was atimely; as we all know John Lennon was shot to death on 8th December (I hope I have that right) and we lost a poet, a man whose influence ranked as high as Bob Dylan, Johnny Cash and Woody Guthrie, although there will be many others you could name who had a strong influence in their time that lasted as long and as powerfully from their beginnings.  So, almost a month out of date but still a living, poignant tribute here is Gordon's work. 

December 8^th Blues

(Lament for a legend)

 

Hey, John!

Are you out there floating free?

If you are, won’t you listen,

Listen to me?

Don’t worry if you don’t know

Who I am,

It’s really unimportant,

I’m just one fan who misses you.

 

Hey, John!

What gives? What’s this I’ve read?

How can they keep telling me,

A legend is dead?

Did that lunatic really take your life,

That December day,

As you walked with your wife

Who misses you?

 

Hey, John!

Do you remember when we were young,

How I’d sit and listen,

To songs that you’d sung?

Not pretty words, you’d have to admit.

Full of barbed anger,

But mixed with such wit.

Man! How we miss you.

 

Hey, John!

Remember what your critics said

When you spoke of peace

In your Amsterdam bed?

A rebel! A madman! For condemning a war,

Then they tried to force you out

For breaking some law,

Now they miss you.

 

Hey, John!

Was it you they blamed, I can’t recall,

For breaking up the group

That gave pleasure to all?

Didn’t they understand that good things

All come to an end?

And when the fat lady sings

Even she will miss you.

 

Hey, John!

Remember: Happiness Is A Warm Gun?

Did you have a premonition?

Did you know it would come?

Was a message or simply the truth

Carried in that song

That I knew as a youth?

Did you think he would miss you?

 

Hey, John!

There’s something that needs to be said

When your critics are forgotten

Long after they’re dead

One thing is for sure

One thing is for certain. I for one,

And many millions more,

Will miss you.

Yeah! We miss you....

 

Ray Collins responded to our daliance with Haiku and has submitted a few of his own.  Ray has also written some short stories so I have popped one on the site for you to read.  Below are his Haiku:

The future basks in

A comforting haze, cold waves

Crash on burning sand.

 

 

A finger of flame

On dry tinder crackles, an

Eternal dance fades.

 

 

Swallowed whole through wet

Muddy membrane, the seed that

Bursts with life anew.

 

The flow of time through

Air so thin, the ceaseless sleep

Of sweet mountain snow.

 

 

I hope you like them - James

 

 

The writer's group were invited to take part in a Haiku workshop on the RSPB reserve at Elmley Marsh.  This was in conjunction with the artist Stephen Turner and his observations of the Moon during twenty-eight days in July and August.  The intention was to show the results of his work and those of childern involved in the project which was conducted by the NKLA Arts Partnership and the RSPB.  A small group gathered at Elmley reserve on a windy, wet Friday and created some Haiku.  The object was to perform them at the Moon View event on Elmley on the 13th September as a celebration of the September Moon.  Good, wacky, arty farty stuff. 

As a result I, the only one who was able to attend the evening, found myself reading Haiku poems in front of an audience that included the Mayor and Mayoress of Swale (The bloke with all the bling) and, with my usual sense of the ridiculous added into the program a poem of Haiku style that required audience participation.  Viz; to howl at the Moon.  We did it!

Before we go to the poems below there are some contacts:

www.moonview.org.uk  

www.nklaap.com

www.rspb.org.uk

 

Bob and I went to Gravesend to read at the Moon View event in the Dell in Riverside Park. There we met some wonderful Sikh gentlemen and had a delightful and interesting chat with them before making our way to the Dell to do our bit.  So, below I offer a couple of my efforts and when Bob has written his up neatly I will post them here. 

The first one written on the night of the workshop using the traditional 5 - 7 - 5 syllable form.

She swoops gracefully

Cutting airborne curves, landing:

Her mate greets her.

 

The second one, still in traditional form was written on the night of the Moon View which was a clear night with a full Moon and the soft red of a setting Sun. 

 

Moon's mushroom face sees

Westward sinking sister Sun;

In sky clear moonlight.

 

To see more click on the link Haiku

Bob was at the workshop and below are two of his poems.

A gull hover's

bird shake of wing

Mud wadding damp.

Pitter patter

on my cold head

Dancing raindrop's.

To read the rest click the link - Bob's Haiku   Note that the file takes a while to load but it is worth it. 

Both of these Haiku PDF files are printable - please feel free to print them for yourself but you are reminded that they are the copyright of James Apps and Bob Collins . 

 

This poem by new member, Claire Turner, is a spine chilling delight.

The Vampire's Thrall

 

A whisper in the darkness,

A shiver down your spine.

A feeling overcoming emptiness,

A fear that's so divine.

 

Imagined footsteps upon the stair,

A threat lies within the silence.

The rising of your neck-hair,

The soundless offer of violence.

 

A little glance, cold and calculating,

A little smile that holds you in a trance.

If only you knew the mistake you're making,

Light and dark will soon begin the dance.

 

The slightest touch and you'll surrender,

Gentle words, the softly spoken threat.

You take my hand, so sweet, so tender,

it's now the final game of the final set.

 

A kiss as soft as velvet,

Life and Death entwine.

A surrender that you'll soon regret,

For soon you will be mine.

 

You look through the eyes of the night,

Viewing our world with eager delight.

You let the night swallow you whole,

Embrace the dark, let it fill your soul.

  Wally asked me to read this at the Little Theatre evening on 16th November but unfortunately it did not arrive until after then and as I have no Time Machine I decided to put it here.  Editor. 

Autumn ....... Disconnected Thoughts ...2007

 

Languid days of Summer..

Have all but passed away,

The air, distinctly cooler,

And the trees turned to display

A golden world, defiant

Of the frosts, we know, are near.

Now is the time for clearing up,

Before winter storms appear.

 

It's cut this, and prune that,

Dump that on the fire.

Pick those, and pluck these,

Preserve them in ajar.

It's Hedging time, and Ditching time,

And time to mend the fences.

Mildew, decay and wet rot,

Enough to drive you senseless.

Clean the gutters and the down-pipes,

Clear and rod the drains,

Sweep the leaves from gullies

So that nothing else remains

To clog up all the water-ways.

Come on ! Don't mess about !

We need to get it finished.

Daylight’s running out

 

 

It's a time of satisfaction,

Once the work’s been done.

The days and weeks have all slipped by,

And now the Autumn sun,

Angles through half barren trees,

Your soul to inspire,

Creating a surreal world

That seems to be on fire.

 

There's Amber, Gold, and Russet Brown

Leaves descending, falling down

Around my ears, my head, my feet.

Acorns and nuts too, compete

To bombard me, should I care to walk

Through woodland, and while I might talk

To birds and wildlife nesting there.

Warning them of Winter. I shouldn't despair,

They know what's coming,

They are well aware.

Indeed it is I ...

Who should take care.

And prepare myself for wintry days

When p'raps I'll avoid these woodland ways.

When freezing snow lays on the ground

And icy puddles too abound.

 

Even now, walking through the woodland trees,

Ankle deep in Autumn leaves,

There's rotted branches, hidden furrows,

Squelching mud and rabbit burrows.

 

But there's also peace, and you can feel at one,

Alone with the trees, while the slanting sun

Slices the branches,

With it's setting rays.

A contentment that comes

With Autumn days.

 

....Wally Newby

Little Pedlars. Autumn 2007

 These poems come from a collection of verse by Sandy Edwards a long time supporter of the group. (Click here for more information)  Sandy's interests lie in the ancient stories of old England and in particular his own story of the area of Kent we know as the Isle of Thanet. 

The Darkest Age

 

Aleric wages war on Rome,

out goes the urgent plea

to bring the Roman legions home

from far across the sea.

 

Upon the wall they hear the call

and heave a heavy sigh.

“We march to Gaul, or Rome will fall,”

will be their rousing cry.

 

The wildest hordes are breaking forth

while legions march away,

and from the east, the west, the north,

these raiders came to stay.

 

That martial sight of Roman might

now waves a last farewell,

as legions march away to fight

to where their noble standards fell.

 

Abandoned towns were left behind

along the roads of stone

and folk await a fate unkind

where terror reigns alone.

 

On Watling Street their tramping feet

are marching through Cantiae,

where they will meet a Roman fleet

and sail to from Rutapiae.

 

Four hundred years are at an end,

as Saxons burn and loot

the province Rome will not defend,

where England will take root.

 

A Rose

I saw a rose

I loved a rose

I saw it cry

and so did I.

 

'It is late I sojourn so long The wind is high And I must journey I bid 'Goodnight' to my host And open the door Step into the night alone.   On the street the neon's pale glow Throw's shadows into Dimly lit doorways A mist rises, and in the mist Something stirs A shaft of light falls Onto a pale, Tall, Gaunt Hound like figure It's stark eyes glare As it draws a grimace Over blackened yellow teeth.   I lengthen my gait As the spectre flits From shadow to shadow I hurry along And, glancing over my shoulder As on the wind, I witness The spectre call.   The specter leaves the Shadows to tag me And as I turn and run Glides' hallow behind, Them Above,Its claw like hands Tear at my hair And flying scarf   Bent low running I reach the open road 'I cross' and bang the door Furiously I fumble With my keys I open the door and enter Slamming the draw bolt tight.   Dishevelled I fall Exhausted in the hall And as I fall I glance up At the pale claw like hand At the open parlour window.

Empty street bare  Whom lurk there In gloomy shadow Beneath neon glare   People of night In darkness hide Their muffled feet O'er cobbles glide   Shadows of night Mask their scowl But hush wind Hark they wail   An echo sharp Two beats apart Strikes cold fear Deep to heart   Fleet nimble feet Tip tap beat Echoes hang listless O'er barren street   Hurry feet fleetly Guide me home Never again dare Walk night alone.   Em'm nobody about Still early yet Pub's have'nt closed Still quiet for a Saturday night Cold, must fix my tights There, now fix my make-up Neon's dim tonight.   A dog's a'wailing Ought to be in on A night like this Shameful, Its master Ought to be prosecuted, Oh, there's a gentleman Now, must make a few bob I'll just step forward' 'Hello dear', but wait' What's that in the shadows 'Oh my God It's no Gentleman God have pity? I'm off Feet don't fail me!.

 

Published by Poetry Now. 

In Spell casting.  edited by Clair Savage.

This is a poem by Bob Collins.  Bob is a local artist who paints water colors of scenes around Sheppey and across the Swale in places as far away as Cornwall and Stratford-upon-Avon.  Bob is a published poet who writes poems with a religious theme. 

 

Mary's faded red jumper by Bob Collins

Mary had wash’ed her

faded red jumper

Twice she had counted

pennies in her purse

Not enough to pay the

mistress her keep

Let alone buy 'Anew’

So Mary put away her

Sigh's put on her best

smile opened the empty

Hatchway and called

'Tea or Coffee'Sir's

Then Shrugged.

 

PMT (To be read with feeling)

 

I don't suffer from PMT.

I realise how lucky this makes me.

I'm always charming, patient, never snappy.

Smiling, helpful, calm and happy.

 

No, I DON'T suffer from PMT.

I REALISE how lucky this makes me.

I'm always charming, patient, NEVER snappy.

SMILING, helpful, CALM and happy.

 

NO! I DO NOT SUFFER FROM PMT.

I REALISE how LUCKY this makes me.

I am ALWAYS CHARMING. PATIENT. NEVER SNAPPY!

SMILING! HELPFUL! CALM! And happy.

 

No, I don't suffer from PMT.