Poetry competition

1st Prize – John Parsons

Beyond the Urizen

by Galdor se Scop

From London's smoke and dark despair,
I fled to breathe a sweeter air.
To Sussex fields, where Felpham lies,
Beneath the vast and watchful skies.

No 'chartered street' the eye did see,
But Eden's wall, or so seemed me.
A cottage small, a garden bright,
Bathed in simple, southern light.

The sea did moan upon the sand,
Where England’s pastures gird the land.
And in that sound, a whisper deep,
Of souls that wake, and souls that sleep.

I walked the shore at evening's gleam,
And saw a vision, or a dream.
Not Urizen's cold iron law,
But forms of beauty that I saw.
The sun, a flaming cherub high,
Did light the spirit's inner eye.

The moon, a pale and silver thought,
The mysteries the ages brought.
The nightingale from heaven sprung,
His joyful hymn for truth has sung.

The rose, upon its thorny stem,
A living, breathing, diadem.
But lo! A shadow, cold and vast,
From Satan’s forge, its shape has cast.
For even here where peace should dwell,
The serpent whispers from his cell.

The spectre of the age's fear,
Did rise and strive to draw me near.
To bind the soul in chains of doubt,
And blot the sacred fires out.
O Felpham, hold your gentle sway,
And chase the swicol far away!

Let Imagination, strong and free,
Restore the lost eternity!
For heaven is here, and hell is too,
In all we think and all we do.
And every grain of golden sand,
Contains the secrets of the land.

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.