Poetry competition

2nd Prize – Jill Palmer

Blake’s Bognor Vision

By Jill Palmer

Blake left his cottage for a walk,

His heart was heavy, footsteps slow,

His sharp mind blurred and clouded,

In melancholy, spirits low.

Lamenting creativity,

Crushed by the mills of education,

And workers spending lives untouched,

By their divine imagination.

Even children toiled, underfed,

Minds shackled so they can’t begin,

To cease their hunger’s constant cry

And reach the greater life within.

Then on his path he came upon,

A thistle he had met before,

One that he had argued with,

And found an aggravating bore.

‘William Blake,’ the thistle said,

‘From your countenance, I see you mope,

Look yonder there along the shore,

And what you see may bring you hope.’

And beyond the thistle’s prickly head,

White domes rose like clouds on high,

Topped with brightly shining spears,

Reaching into Bognor’s sky.

And beneath them lay a paradise,

Of sound and colour by the sea,

With fountains, feasts and carousels.

A place of such divinity,

Where England’s workers could relax,

And take a break from earthly state,

Unencumbered by their daily strife,

And leave Urizen at the gate.

There, music such as never heard,

Pulsating with hypnotic beat,

Would bring them close to ecstasy,

As it entered through their feet.

Children’s minds could come to life,

As the gnaw of hunger ceased,

They would laugh and play and swim,

All their tethered thoughts released.

Their eyes would feast on such delights,

And angels would enrich their soul,

Bringing to them them love and joy,

In the form of ‘Paw Patrol’.

So, Blake wandered through the vision,

Of this England so desired,

His mind’s eye full of sights, smells, sounds,

Creative inspiration fired.

And he could see the nation’s mind,

Unchained in this promised land,

The prospect filled his heart with joy,

Until it faded into sand.

Now knowing what could come to pass,

At this place on Felpham’s shore,

Blake turned for home, his spirits raised,

His footsteps lighter than before.

Later, writing poetry, the

Strange word ‘Butlins’ filled his head,

But it didn’t fit the line so,

He used ‘Jerusalem’ instead.

3rd Prize – Mary Halpin

Sweet Felpham

By Mary Halpin

And didst thou leave the dungeon dark

Bearing sand and sparks of fire;

And could thy bow of burning gold

Find that gate open to desire?

And didst thou find a place of joy

Among the birds and fields of grain;

And were sweet voices raised in song

As thou strolled through old Felpham's lanes?

Oh if I could but sail through time:

Thou a stout captain at the helm;

Or walk with thee to quaff an ale

Or find thee deep in poesy's realm

I scour the shore by leaden waves

I search our streets in vain for thee;

Yet left behind is such a mind

As England ever hopes to see.

Runners up

The Forge of Angels

By Khudeeja Begum

O London’s river, darkly crowned with fire,

Thy bridges span the bones of sleeping years—

Where whispers of the prophets still aspire,

And angels wade through humanity’s tears.

In cobblestone light the spirits gleam,

Forged from labour, dream by dream;

While iron hearts in taverns low

Beat molten hymns the heavens know.

A child I saw beneath the hill,

His breath a gleam, his eyes the will

Of long-dead saints who strove for grace,

And read God’s fury on man’s face.

He spoke: “The lamb and lion bleed,

That wisdom’s star may intercede.”

And lo, the sky in rust unrolled,

Where dawn was burning, fierce and cold.

Might not the poor soul, crushed in clay,

Sing brighter than the golden day?

For truth is forged in shadow’s cave,

And tyrants tremble at the grave.

The beggar’s cup, the widow’s sigh,

Are censers to the sceptred sky.

In every soot-black street there gleams

The angel of the people’s dreams.

O Blake! thou hammer of celestial flame,

Who saw through pallid flesh the Name—

Return, return, thy children cry

Amid the wheels that choke the sky.

The Thames still weeps its silver prayer,

Through iron dust and poisoned air;

Yet in each brick and burning spire,

Lurks vision’s spark, Devotion’s fire.

For where the sun on St. Mary’s reigns,

I hear the choir through factory chains;

And though the bankers build of gold,

Their towers crack, their hearts grow cold.

But in the singer’s trembling throat,

Eternal melodies still float:

The Lamb is risen, the Tyger roars—

And creation breaks its prison doors.

O England, forge thy soul anew,

Not in iron, but in dew;

Let every street become a star,

Each life a blazing avatar.

When heaven’s gate at dawn is flung,

Let Justice rise with radiant tongue;

Then Man and God, through night and fire,

Shall fuse again in one desire.

English Blake

By D J Elliott

William Blake was ironic yet serious

As he sang & painted the mysteries.

He was told by angels to listen to God

But he had already seen him when a tot.

Blake searched for ancient truths & golden times

He found the answers in his mind.

He had one foot in this world

The other stood in the spiritual realm.

He talked to his beloveds all the time

No matter whether they were dead or alive.

Blake painted & etched

And wrote poetry & prose whilst he sketched

Biblical scenes & historical encounters

He made into art whilst he sat at the counter.

Visions of his dead brother Robert

Taught him to etch proper.

With a mirror backwards he learnt to write

So that his etching came out just right.

He didn’t believe in a natural religion

Yet he was god-fearing.

Blake produced illuminated books about the soul,

Spirit & mankind’s ultimate goal.

Blake created a system so that he would not be a slave

To any other man’s belief in a deity or way.

He believed himself a spirit of prophecy

Looking for innocence amongst the cacophony.

And as his feet walked the streets of London

The paves became Jerusalem.

He opened the gates of Paradise

To find that it was now Hell & full of vice.

He believed in Liberty,

That every man, woman & child should be free,

Free to sing & free to dance

Blake liked to hear the children laugh.

For everything that lives is holy

And to Blake life should be holy.

But he saw the torment & pain

As he walked London’s lanes.

Blake protested with rhyme & verse

And pictures to explain his universe.

Stubborn in his thoughts & obsessive in his work

He came across as a bit berserk.

He wrote the marriage of heaven & hell

And cast young Catherine under his spell.

So William Blake used his imagination

And gave us songs of experience

As he travelled in his mind

And wrote a new bible

On the creation of mankind.

To see & behold his wonderful art

To hear his words of light & dark

William Blake & his visionary prose

William Blake the English rose.

The Ghost of Milton

By Stephen Micalef

The ghost of Milton drinks still

at the Fox Inn and wanders round Felpham -

I see him kiss Ololon in the church graveyard 

and standing under the old quince tree on Hayley’s

lawn by the ornamental pond -

I see him standing on Hayley’s horse mount

at the Turret’s gate

waiting for a groom to bring Alphonso’s pony Bruno

to ride quixotic to the mountains of Jerusalem -

Sometimes he looks like Blake himself 

staring into the apocalypse of the sea

seeing the Beast rise -

In calmer weather

I see him bending down

gathering angel wings on the seashore

and staring at the psychedelic atoms 

of glinting sunlight

forming the Albion of us all -

And now Milton’s ghost - or is it Blake’s -

huddled into the corner of the Fox Inn

And now angry red faced Schofield’s

staring in at the pub window

banging and shouting 

I’ll get you Blake!

You dirty rotten military painter!

Your time is up!

But Blake’s Time is never up

Immortality is only just beginning.