Poems written by workshop participants

One of the most enjoyable aspects of my Poet in the Park residency at Bradgate has been running workshops for the public.  I’ve met some talented writers from the area, and I’ve enjoyed seeing how they respond to the prompts. They have been good-humoured about my habit of coming up with daft names at the start of each workshop, and have written with imagination every time.  In this blog post, I’m delighted to share with you some poems by the participants, based on the workshops so far.  As you’ll see, each poet has a different take on the Park – although some themes and images crop up quite a few times.  I hope you enjoy reading them as much as I have.

We start with Sally Wilson’s poem, which combines personal memory with the figure that hangs over the place forever.  I love the idea that Lady Jane Grey is trapped forever, trying to send Morse code messages to us….

 

Bradgate Park

Spring’s ruin

The memory wood

Of cycling visits

Long ago past streams

In deer land’s leap

Over a child’s rainbow

The colours still shine

amidst fine woodland scenery.

 

Lady Jane Grey

Memories of you

Tapped in Morse code

Down the ages

Through the wires

Trapped, convicted of treason

Finished at an early age

 

Sally Wilson

 

Deione Hanson has written several poems, all very different.  In this first one, we see the combination of wildlife and human activity. I love the carefully-observed detail about the bracken that ends the poem.

Dark Stag Stands Alert

 

Dark stag stands alert

Someone passes with a straining black leash of black alarm.

Heads turn about and about as fear changes direction,

Uneasy stretch to trot to neat lope,

Close by, mounds of stone and earth spring antlers and take flight

Lines of unease weaving along their slotted path.

Behind, the crumpled bracken slowly lifts.

 

Deione Hanson

 

This untitled poem manages to capture one moment brilliantly: the location, the birds, the weather…. I like some of the imagery here: ‘crazed boughs’ is perfect for the jackdaws, and the appearance of the mole is another great detail:

 

Jackdaws shrill from crazed boughs on high

Pinging their spring intent

Falls the drizzle like a sigh,

Damping the spirits with its descent.

 

A pheasant’s high pitched bark

Sounds his territory, calls a thrill

Echoes through the oak trees stark

Standing clear against the hill.

 

Huddled figures briskly stroll

Their hooded colours brightly seep

Past grass, short, muddied by the mole

Earth moving, black tips out its heap.

 

Damp fallow start at pheasant’s call

New turned soil gathers drizzle fall.

 

Deione Hanson

 

This poem captures the timeless atmosphere of the park, as seen by ravens, the bringers of death.  Although the past is ‘long-gone murdered’, the ravens still observe human activity, as random movement over the unchanging landscape.

The Ravens

 

We are back, we are back, we see

The land of our long-gone murdered past.

The rocks and crags slide beneath our ink black wings

Unchanged but strangely dotted by bright points of colour

Travelling without aim along new scars.

 

Deione Hanson

 

Finally from Deione, this poem that puns bore (carried) and bore (not interested) to give voice to Old John:

Old John

 

Now I am bored.

My favourite days, I bore the Lord

And watched his horses race around

My hill and cheered the thunder on the ground.

 

Deione Hanson

 

In one of the workshops, we experimented with a form loosely based on the sonnet.  In this poem Angela Reddaway considers the change of the  seasons, and compares the bare  branches and the  cafe customers, both with chilled  “skeletal frames”.  I also like the playful use of ‘elders’ – beings that are older than you, but also of course elder trees, in Elder Plantation.

 

Sonnet

Bare branches reaching expectantly

towards the place the sun should be

Stilled by searching winds

that chill their skeletal frame

Cafe customers sit outside determinedly

Thawing frozen fingers around mugs of steaming tea

Perceptions of how the month should be

not equalling the reality of icy, muffled day

The noisy protest of a solitary bird

hovering above the slime of last year’s leaves

disturbs the running deer bidden to bewildered stop

The purpose of their flight now forgotten

Time now for young saplings to emulate their elders

Soon enough will winter’s front take it’s turn again

 

Angela Reddaway

 

Whilst doing some research for this project, I came across a catalogue describing lands and properties for sale in the Bradgate Park area.  The sale took place in 1921, and the original catalogue is kept in the Wigston Record Office.  In the Spring workshop, I challenged the poets to include phrases from the catalogue descriptions in a poem – Angela has risen to the challenge brilliantly with this ‘found’ poem:

March 27^th 2018

 

Should you for your leisure choose

To wander forth to Bradgate Park

Approach it from the north direction

Where a charming and elevated situation

Reveals fine beds of rock, stone and granite

No guarantee is given or implied

But a brisk walk to Old John

Commanding delightful views

Holds promise of a beautiful character

When beheld in it’s entirety

 

Angela Reddaway

 

 

We end this selection with a poem by Angela Yates, which picks up on one of the dominant themes in any writing about the Park: Lady Jane Grey and her story.   I like the way that this poem, by mentioning specific places in the Park, makes it clear that Jane’s presence is everywhere.  There is also a clever combination of past and present as Jane’s ghost disturbs geologists -whose job, of course, is to make sense of the Park’s distant past:

Poor Jane

When nights are dark in Bradgate Park, the ghost of Lady Jane

From Hallgates through to Swithland Woods, goes haunting through the lanes

 

Behind the War Memorial she lies in wait at night

When lovers pass, their hands she grasps – the poor souls flee in fright

 

In Bradgate House, where  peacocks screech among the ruined walls

She paces, face translucent, pale,  along the ancient hall

 

‘I never wanted to be Queen’, she cries, ‘the truth must now be said

My parents’ aspirations made me lose my pretty head.’

 

‘Oh pity me,’ she cries in grief, ‘for my pathetic life

Eight days I was a “Majesty”, eight months I was a wife.’

 

The fallow deer that roam the park, on well-worn lanes and banks

Are fearful every night that she will mount their trembling flanks

 

Then off she’ll ride to see Old John, another wraith-like ghost

And spectral tales will they exchange, to frighten each the most

 

Geologists and Scientists, when carrying out their checks

Feel bony, icy fingers touch their unsuspecting necks

 

And rangers who investigate the oak, the ash the birch

Occasionally glimpse poor Jane, as she makes her fruitless search

 

To find her head has quite become a miserable obsession

Jane knows that she has every right to take back her possession

 

The moral of this story is to take your walks by day

And don’t end your days a victim – like her Ladyship, Jane Grey

                       

Angela Yates

 

Thank you to all the contributors to this post, and to all the workshop participants.  I look forward to the fourth workshop, in the autumn.  The next posts, over the next couple of weeks, will feature Richard Thomas, who leads the archaeological fieldschool, and Peter Tyldesley, the Director of the Bradgate Park Trust.  I hope you’re enjoying the Park in the summer weather – be inspired!