From some of our creative members.
We’ve had some beautiful poetry sent to us at W&BA and we’d like to share them with you here. If you would like to send us a poem too, please email firstname.lastname@example.org
The month of the Summer Solstice
Now the feral dog rose flowers
blushes pinned with hard thorns,
only six weeks now to ripened corn.
Sounds to lift hope, insistent purring —
turtle doves, close by, call for company.
Caressing cries that murmur joy.
Zephyrs skim the meadow’s high grasses
wash green waves towards floating islands
of ox eye daisies and hawkweed garlands
Evening sun’s butter – light kisses the Heath
polishing to richest gold each gorse flower,
forming citrine gems, with effortless power.
Crepuscular nightjars greet the dusk
with their deceiving call and wing clap
flying open mouthed, ghosts in rapture.
Honeysuckle petals reflect the full moon
shining massed stars on scrambling tendrils,
scent loading the birch wood’s silver sentinels.
June — the month of hope. Moving to the long day
has slowly drawn us from the dead of winter
through warming Spring, to this sensory treasure.
Written by Ivor Murrell, 6th June 2019
The full moon rose as we left the heath
from the teasing chirrs of nightjars
to make our way to Dunwich beach,
drawn by lazy sounds of tired sea sighs
drowned by our trodden crunch of pebbles.
The shoreline lit by a glowing moon,
which beamed down on layered clouds
laying a silver path on rippled waves,
right to our feet, the whispering edge
of surf’s seductive susurration.
If we could walk that shimmering track
what attractions would delight beyond?
Moonlight on water illuminates longing
reflected light with no link to meaning
— yet it calls to our ancient memories.
Written by Ivor Murrell, 16th April 2020
Laid to Earth
I want to be of this land, to be sinewed
by rock and root; to be fed by it in seed
and fruit; to borrow wool from the sheep,
weave cloth for my comfort. Hear music
of the wind’s play in poplars, laugh
with chuckle of water under the bridge.
I want to be nurtured by sun; cup apples
warm from the tree, heft them in my palm
or bite the pear, the lazy juice sweetly running.
When I can no longer sing of the land
or hear its calling; see only blue mist coiling
round the farm, forget the blackbird
rousing the dawn, then I want to lie in the roots
of oak, in the fold of meadows, cradled
and crooked by river and wood; turn
to the earth for sleep, returning bone
to bone, unwinding sinews and sinking
back to this land from where I came sweetly running.
Written By Melinda Appleby, May 2020
Featured in our blog
Is it really first time
I have never written a poem
Maybe a haiku, or a senryu or a tanka
Will be good
In the virus affected 2020 installation
The paradox is, we cannot uninstall,
and do a “cold start”
But we can use it to learn and improve
As in a storm
We have learnt new terminology:
“Social distancing” !
Which is a code name for physical distancing!
that does not mean that socially
we have to disconnect from our loved ones
As always people have shown the correct meaning
By doing what’s natural
Never felt wider, deeper
Now people are under the same storm
But not in the same boat
people have more empathy towards others and
now, more people have more chance
the weather, nature has different forms
that includes us
Not always sunshine
While we are enjoying every bit of it
Not to look at the small matters
Focus on main issues with our good points
Maybe climate change needs a code name too
On the way to social justice:
We will go back
Yes we will
But surely not to the old normal days
Old wasn’t exactly normal
So we will go back
To better than normal days
More than yesterday
Here let’s finish this Maiku
With brilliant words
From Mr Brilliant
Not kumbaya but,
A global solution to global problem.
Written by Meryem Siemmond, May 2020
Larry Brilliant Ted Talk: A global pandemic calls for global solutions
It’s only for Twelve Weeks
Listen, it’s the silence of my childhood —
imposed by the virus from a distant bat,
as I am shielded in my seventies from its touch.
Blackbirds sing louder, sound travels further,
they can now hear distant males reply,
whilst we have sunshine to mock our lockdown.
Everything firmly struck from my diary
by line after line, for day after day.
Adrift from society for a year’s quarter.
The eager Spring fears no constraint
on the village green the giant white cherry
daily creeps towards its ‘white –out’.
Ladybirds gem stalks in quickening growth.
Paired ducks explore the flower beds as
we watch from the windows, and wait.
Written by Ivor Murrell, March 2020
the birds sing to me from somewhere I cannot see,
sourced rhythm and rhyme from tiny beating hearts,
set free to chime by warming spring rays of light,
wisdom only they can know woven by descendant right.
wanting to warn of times past dutifully witnessed perhaps,
handed down from ancestral journeys of foretelling flights,
where humankind has caused havoc and nature to bleed,
pleading for us not to follow down the same harmful creed.
choirs of evangelical voices preach with everlasting hope,
verses taking veritable flight on winds of melodic wings,
soaring thermals high and low to achieve their inevitable fate,
to stop the turning of the calamity key before it is way too late.
forced to wear solemn silence due to the murmarations of mankind,
the birdsongs can be heard clearly piercing the quietness of the sky,
listen to these purest advocates of nature and life passion to be,
until we can embrace one other as love intended and once again be free.
Written by Sean O’Loughlin
Tell me what your secret is, how do you do it?
Involuntarily isolated for over fifteen years
yet each new year, for several months,
you dress to impress.
Everyone here knows you, but you walk apart.
Slowly and with a theatre of dignity you pass
in silence, for most months of every year —
but you can scream.
Sometimes you do not visit us for days
then appear, at our glazed front door,
staring in with your arrogant frustration
at the lack of service.
Who else feeds you? I hear, I admit allegedly,
of sausage rolls and pork pies, and rum soaked raisins
that were meant to subdue then trap you,
but you looked for more.
Now I am caged, to avoid a threatening virus,
self-isolating is the term, twelve weeks the period.
Teach me that self-containment you possess
Percy, ancient village Peacock.
Written by Ivor Murrell, April 2020