Feeds:
Posts
Comments

I had set the deadline of 12:00pm (UK time) for words to be submitted for inclusion in the poem, when I posted it I had included all the words that had been submitted via the Nuneaton Poetry Day, email, facebook and twitter accounts. – I did not check my personal accounts and on checking this morning I found two submissions that were posted before the 12:00pm deadline, so I think it is only fair to include them. -I have therefore added the words into the word list and also to the poem – which now reads as follows:

In a single Moment
Collaborative poem from the world to Nuneaton Summer Poetry Day.

The ambidextrous clap themselves
for single handedly building steam powered computers,
whilst the Levellers emphasise the popular need for purple
and black in these gothic times.
Free spirits shift their shapes into places and make homes,
saying “welcome we are Kami”.
The splendiferous can not decide on their monikers
and so make up words, bemuddled.
Tourists marvel at the Roman, Medieval and modern
as they sit together upon the seven hills.
South Africans, greet us with “Dumula”
and put fresh ribs on the Braai saying “come and eat”.
Whilst in Ottawa there is a conundrum,
should the girl from Cork, go to lectures
or the market to eat beaver tails with hazelnut and chocolate.
The seeds of ice, rooted to the bedrock,
take away the tundra weeds on Alaskan winds,
as the Washington set, hunt for conch and cinder among the dunes
and declare the blabby days as times for family picnics,
as they ascend the Eastsound dock.
The English pagans wash their floors with lant liquids
to cleanse the mind,body and Kami,
Californian crows caw-caw as their sharp scalpel wings
drive through the flesh air at sunset,
where on its rise in the North island,
little Scotland, the tartan gumboots
stir the slow curmudgeonly ceilidh
until reaching the efflorescence of the reel,
melliflous to some, but to others a prelude to serendipity,
mere foibles of the passage,
in Burton, the breweries pour another pint,
malcontent with lesser brews,
in Droitwich, a poet polishes brass buttons
with all the gusto of a circus troupe
“The bombasticfantastically”,
whilst in Birmingham, once city of thousand trades,
inchoate poets are making poetry that bites,
as Langland’s sleepy mountains dream
in the blue of lapis lazuli,
and in Nuneaton, Warwickshire,
the poets slam their own sixty seconds
and then head to the Crown to drink in these words.

Mal Dewhirst in collaboration with the poets on the Word list.
(c) 2011 All Rights Reserved.

As part of my role as Festival Poet, I was asked to write a poem for Nuneaton. I became very much aware from the town map that the River Anker, so beloved of Michael Drayton, runs under the town streets, such that when you are in town you may not realise it was there. So using this as a theme I compared the flow of the river with the flow of the people in the market.

So here is my poem for Nuneaton.

Nuneaton.
(Commissioned for Nuneaton Summer Poetry Day 2011)

The Anker, cuts its ripa across the park,
sidles, past the artefacts and paintings,
missing the “Beautiful Light”,
then wishing for it
as it enters its uncertain tunnelled way
beneath these Nuneaton streets.
Once the priory land, it shone like silver ribbon
through Eaton fertility fields.
Some would not know it
was there, below
Bridge st and Newdegate st
where the Saturday market
parades its wares, from denim candy stripe gazebos.

The sparkle drops on red silks gathered
in rolls with buttons and bows
and threads that hint of making things,
The glitter flows through olive groves that gather in bowls,
on azalea, buddleia, begonia and the bellis spring stars that smile from pots,
to apples and pears, greens and reds stacked like volcano candles,
then rests among paperbacks that lie re-read in cardboard tomato trays,
until it seeks out blood steaks and plump chickens,
enticed by words and the sleek crisp lines
of the large blue and white truck.

The glint, reflects
Swift carried spices, coffee, burgers, roasts
that engage my nostrils,
pulling me nearer and nearer
as my stomach aches to be filled.

Market calls overlap
in counterpoint rhythms,
songs of trade,
symphonies of endeavour,
voices of cadent clarity.
singing lullabies for the Milby girl.

Streets, narrowed,
criss-cross,
take me in circles,
force me to rest at the fountain
where the sandstone leaves spilling water, recycle to spill again.
My eyes carry my feet
down Chapel street
toward the old town jail,
that now serves diners
under the bow of the glass-roof clipper,
that sails under canvas garments,
the ropes arc as they walk
their marbled path that takes us back to Queens Road.

Where I meet the market end,
from here, in the un-cramped, lightness, I breath
and see people, ebb and flow into market stalls
meandering, ripples, that trickle and lap the shop glass ripa,
mimicking the Anker,
that they know, is beneath there feet.

Mal Dewhirst
© 2011 – All rights reserved.

Community Cafe 

In the community cafe the story teller,
bends his words around the ears of Saturday
His tales wild and bold, his lilt resonates
around the tables and drinks, holding court,
the King spills strawberry and lemon cup cakes
into the mystic rivers, climbs gravel mountains,
sails across inland seas, until the last word leaves
its trace in the cappacino froth
that never quite got drunk.

Mal Dewhirst
(c) 2011 All Rights Reserved

Cathryn Ravenhall giving us her poem More for less.

In a single Moment
Collaborative poem from the world to Nuneaton Summer Poetry Day.

The ambidextrous clap themselves
for single handedly building steam powered computers,
whilst the Levellers emphasise the popular need for purple
and black in these gothic times.
Free spirits shift their shapes into places and make homes,
saying “welcome we are Kami”.
The splendiferous can not decide on their monikers
and so make up words, bemuddled.
Tourists marvel at the Roman, Medieval and modern
as they sit together upon the seven hills.
South Africans, greet us with “Dumula”
and put fresh ribs on the Braai saying “come and eat”.
Whilst in Ottawa there is a conundrum,
should the girl from Cork, go to lectures
or the market to eat beaver tails with hazelnut and chocolate.
The seeds of ice, rooted to the bedrock,
take away the tundra weeds on Alaskan winds,
as the Washington set, hunt for conch and cinder among the dunes
and declare the blabby days as times for family picnics,
as they ascend the Eastsound dock.
The English pagans wash their floors with lant liquids
to cleanse the mind,body and Kami,
Californian crows caw-caw as their sharp scalpel wings
drive through the flesh air at sunset,
where on its rise in the North island,
little Scotland, the tartan gumboots
stir the slow curmudgeonly ceilidh
until reaching the efflorescence of the reel,
melliflous to some, but to others a pelude to serendipity,
mere foibles of the passage,
in Burton, the breweries pour another pint,
malcontent with lesser brews,
in Droitwich, a poet polishes brass buttons
with all the gusto of a circus troupe
“The bombasticfantastically”,
whilst in Birmingham, once city of thousand trades,
inchoate poets are making poetry that bites,
as Langland’s sleepy mountains dream
in the blue of lapis lazuli,
and in Nuneaton, Warwickshire,
the poets slam their own sixty seconds
and then head to the Crown to drink in these words.

Mal Dewhirst in collaboration with the poets on the Word list.
(c) 2011 All Rights Reserved.

Banana the poet is not an instruction – thankfully.

She is a delightful poet from Bridgend who is selling her books and reading in the market place and the community cafe!