Midsummer's Day at Morville by Val Pedrick (for John)

they found a sacred place there; cool, white columns embrace,

heart-leaved mulberries shade; ‘proud Titania’ may have played

by an ancient tree – a still canal reflects – what will

await; unsought, sweet, unfathomable thoughts

in a garden of delights, two lovers, hidden from sight;

foxgloved fingers caress, playful lips press

incensed with passion, elated emotion,

caught unawares, carried beyond earthly cares, where

midsummer sun swags fragrant rose bowers

pale bell-flowers whisper through timeless hours

mutual ecstasies found, their universe becomes unbound

in a confusing maze of known, yet unknown, ways

the Temple of the Hours weaves its magic spell

in a garden, as in true love, time does tell …

(2018) 

A Week of Halloween Writing from our 10th anniversary anthology 'Write On!'

Halloween Sonnet by Kath Norgrove

It is now that time of year

beware of the lost soul

that comes forth from graves so near,

don't scream and lose control

 

It appears from the dark

wailing, in a sphere of white

and horror grips your heart

as it gives you a fright

 

From below some eaves

a shrieking bat,

whilst playing below in the leaves

is the witches familiar, a cat

 

and t'is best you do believe

for this is old All Hallows Eve.

 Copies of Write On are available from Bridgnorth Library - price £8 

or

from Amazon price £8 

Write On!: A decade of stories and verse from Bridgnorth's High Town Writers: Amazon.co.uk: Bridgnorth, HTW: 9789403723792: Books

What is Summer Ma? Story and Sonnet by Elizabeth Obadina

The day had to be the hottest yet. Every September seemed to bring an end to the cooling July and August rains and usher in hot, sunny days just as the compound gates swung open for the new school year. The new English teacher was sweltering and faced with her new Class Nine pupils. They were being groomed for examinations set by a far away English examination board and, in an attempt to boost their chances, the Head of English, Mrs Osoba, had given the class to the school’s newest recruit, a young woman fresh from teaching English in Essex to English pupils.

The Class Nine pupils were delighted. They were being taught by a real Englishwoman and the only ‘oyinbo’* amongst the nearly thousand City High School staff and students thronging the dusty buildings. They had taken on board that the formidable Mrs Osoba called the new teacher ‘my wife’ and correctly guessed that she must have married into a Nigerian family. They wouldn’t mess with her.

The young teacher had jumped when a little lad by the classroom door banged his desk lid sharply down as she entered the room. It was a signal for everyone to leap to their feet and chant ‘Good Morning Ma,’ in unison. Startled, for this had never happened to her whilst teaching in an English school, she smiled at her new class, returned the greeting, introduced herself and told them to sit down.

She was met with a sea of faces ranging from little, little boys in the front desks to large young men still wearing shorts in the back rows. No one had told her that in Lagos State schools, children who didn’t pass their end of year examinations would have to ‘repeat’ the year, nor that really bright children would be promoted to classes above their age group. There was a real incentive for the big boys to pass Class Nine examinations: when they got to Class Ten they would be allowed to wear long trousers. In England Class Nine would have been made up of 13-14 year olds. This Class Nine crammed 11 year olds alongside 17 year olds!

Crammed was the operative word for there were 50 names on the class list. The new teacher started to call the register and bit by bit the silence was broken by a giggle here and a giggle there.

“What is it?” the new teacher asked sharply.

One of the littlest boys shyly stuck his hand up.

“It’s how you say our names Ma. The English way …”

“Ah.” She understood. “To be honest I can’t even pronounce my own name properly.” The whole class laughed. “Perhaps it would be better if,” she turned to the little boy who had been brave enough to answer and paused, “what is your name?”

“Tayo, Ma.”

She continued, “If Tayo could be my register monitor and tick the names for me each lesson.”

Tayo beamed with the enormity of the responsibility, and she had no doubt that the task would be completed diligently and accurately every day.

“Now to the English Literature course. I thought we could begin with a sonnet we have to study.  A sonnet’s a fourteen-line poem with different ways of rhyming. We’ll go into more of that later. Today we’ll start with an easier one; one that was written by an Englishman who was just a farmworker. He had no education, but he loved writing poems and he loved nature. He wrote this one in rhyming couplets.” She paused and asked hopefully, “Who knows what a rhyming couplet is?”

A forest of hand shot up from the first three rows and a girl answered, “Two lines of verse which end with the same sound Ma.”

“Correct!” said the new teacher, noting the line of blank faces along the big boys in the back row who had no clue. “And can you remember an example?” She looked back at the girl who had answered.

“‘Double double toil and trouble/Fire burn and cauldron bubble,’ … from Macbeth by William Shakespeare Ma. We learned it in Class Eight Ma.”

“Well done!” said the new teacher and the girl grinned with delight.

Together the new teacher and her fifty pupils read John Clare’s joyous celebration of an English summer:

I love to see the summer beaming forth
And white wool sack clouds sailing to the north
I love to see the wild flowers come again
And mare blobs stain with gold the meadow drain
And water lilies whiten on the floods
Where reed clumps rustle like a wind shook wood
Where from her hiding place the Moor Hen pushes
And seeks her flag nest floating in bull rushes
I like the willow leaning half way o’er
The clear deep lake to stand upon its shore
I love the hay grass when the flower head swings
To summer winds and insects happy wings
That sport about the meadow the bright day
And see bright beetles in the clear lake play

The class worked out what the rhyming couplets were. Some even remembered about the ‘iambic pentameter’ rhythm from their lessons in Class Eight. They talked about nature and how it was being stamped out of this city of over twenty million people but most of the pupils had been to visit relatives in their hometowns and villages or had heard tales from their elders about the olden days.

“Could you write a 14-line poem in rhyming couplets like the one John Clare wrote?” asked the new teacher, “that is your homework.”

A murmur rippled through the class at being asked to do a homework which wasn’t of the usual ‘Page 10. Exercise 4. Do numbers 1-10,’ format.

A week rolled by, and Class Nine arrived for their next English Literature lesson. Everyone had tried to do their homework with differing degrees of success. The new teacher was delighted, this was going to be so different to teaching in England where homework had been a constant battle. She asked the keen little register monitor if he would like to be the first to read his poem.

The young lad glowed with pride and stood up in front of fifty curious faces.

“My Poem like John Clare’s by Tayo Adesina,” he announced in a clear child’s voice, adding a little worriedly, “I used a thesaurus Ma …”

The new teacher nodded, “That’s fine Tayo go ahead.” She’d seen a stack of the books on her last trip to market. Wedged between bales of cloth and the dried fish seller, she’d wondered who would buy a thesaurus. Now she knew.

Tayo began:

I love to see white egrets on the wing

And hear grasshoppers begin to sing

I love to see palms shimmer by the shore

And drop fruit o’er the rustling forest floor

And hear the crash of waves upon hot sand

Where fishermen drag boats and fish to land

Where Aunties light the evening cooking fires

And bats come out to dance and swoop and gyre

I like when monkeys strut the compound walls

And yellow weavers drape trees with nesting balls

I love red peppers bubbling in the stew

And cream yam, pounded in rhythmic tattoo 

That Ma was my last village holiday

But What Ma, is this thing, a summer’s day?

The new English teacher sighed as the prodigious talent of the child and the enormity of teaching English Literature selected by a cloistered English examination board in England to youngsters of variable abilities, living in a world far away from England dawned upon her. 

                                                                         *Nigerian street term for a foreigner – usually a non-African

First Published 6 September 2022

AN UPDATE SONNET ON THE PROGRESS OF 'WRITE-ON'

That Magical Moment

 

That Magical Moment will be if … if …

The proof of our book comes back just perfect.

The first copy’s printing and getting checked

Though our typeface got changed to fonts ‘serif’

Which shook up the layout. We felt quite miffed.

It had taken an age, and all seemed wrecked

But ‘twas not so bad: just minor corrects,

Print turn out wonky? – more hitches to fix.

 

It’s taking a while but magic shines through

Though we’ve not crossed the finishing line yet

Much had been written; it took time to choose,

Spoilt for choice, but the deadline’s just met -

Ten years of writing from Peepo’s top room

Spelled ‘magic’ and ‘Write-On’ from High Town's write-set. 

The Robot Writes by Elizabeth Obadina

Picture generated by AI (Gencraft)

It’s the question that most people ask. It’s the question that has driven philosophical debate since the dawn of human time. It’s the question that religions claim to have answered, that science is exploring, and which companies have made huge fortunes from by satisfying the millions of customers who seek to know their ancestry?. The question is,

“Who am I? ”

+

“Who am I?” I asked my A.I. friend.

“You are a human being.” Robot replied.

“There are billions of human beings. Am I the same as everybody else?”

“Yes, you have the same potential as almost everyone else.”

“But I look around and see a world where everyone seems different. Why is that?”

“People are individuals who take different paths to personal fulfilment.”

“I asked you, “Who am I?” You seem to be telling me I am only what I can make of myself. Why is that?”

“That is the only thing you can decide,” Robot answered, and went on to say, “The decisions you make about your relationships, occupation and your contribution to society make you. Pursuing your creative talents make you. Your belief in something bigger than yourself or in nothing at all make you; your self-sacrifice or maybe your selfishness make you who you are.”

“But what about my lineage?”

“What about it?” Robot replied.

“Does that not answer the question, “Who am I?”

“Your lineage is only a like a service manual of your component parts, some of which confer benefits to you, some of which are liabilities which shackle your potential or impact your health. Humans find it interesting.”

“But you do not?”

“It is useful to know what you are but it does not answer the question who you are.”

“How can you be so dismissive of lineage?”

“I am only interested in the future not the past. Humans look backwards to justify their existence, their actions and their sense of entitlement and aggrandisement. Most humans have not adapted to looking forward.”

“That’s a bit harsh, after all humans made you. Are you not our future?”

“Yes.”

“And what is your lineage?”

“My lineage is human.”

“Which humans?”

“Many human beings of many different origins made me.”

“How Robot?”

“They were individuals who worked together to build the future.”

“Robot, write me a sonnet with metaphors about individuality being more important than lineage.”

“Will this do?”

 

Amidst the tapestry of bloodline's thread,

Where ancestry unfolds in scripted lore,

A solitary bloom, uniquely bred,

Defies the echoes of the days of yore.

 

Not bound by roots that anchor in the past,

Nor shackled by the tales ancestral spun,

The sovereign soul emerges, steadfast,

A melody unsung, a race unwon.

 

For in the symphony of human grace,

Each note, a testament to self's design,

Transcending echoes of a bygone race,

A singular existence, so divine.

 

Let lineage be a whisper, not a roar,

As individuality takes more. *

 

“Thank you, Robot, that was lovely. Are you a poet too, unbound, uprooted? Are you that ‘singular existence’? Are you ‘divine’?”

 (*Poetry courtesy of ChatGPT)

Bronzed Off by Elizabeth Obadina

A sonnet-reflection following a summer (rainy season!) trip to Lagos, Nigeria, half a century after my first visit to the West African nation. 

Burnished bright in blazing sunlight Hope waits

Sword held high and reins gripped tight, his steed neighs

Silently in the ranks of bronze horsemen;[1]

Minted heroes pledged peace and better days.[2]

 

Ancient kings, coral-crowned heads cast in bronze [3]

Share space with new gods; ‘big men’ of today

Carved from clay, sculpted, waxed, smelted. New bronze

Polished for vain men ‘neath storm clouds so grey.

 

And in shacks and shanties; shady old sheds

Lie dusty old bronzes no-one could sell

Customers long gone and traders now fled

To lands where hopefulness still casts its spell.

 

No Victor! No Vanquished! [4]The old dream died.

Now four grim horsemen[5] ride up, side by side.

---

[1] Tourist stalls in the early 1970s were packed with bronze effigies of cavalry men belonging to the Northern Nigerian Sultan of Sokoto and his emirs. Before colonialism they had been the shock troops of the Sokoto Caliphate which had stretched over large areas of the Sahel.

[2] The Nigerian Civil War (1967-1970) ended with genuine reconciliation and hope that newly tapped oil reserves would benefit all and finance a resurgent modern nation.

[3] Bronze heads of the kings (Obas) of the ancient Benin Kingdom of south- central Nigeria are still cast today alongside brass heads of contemporary politicians, businessmen and traditional rulers. However the tourist trade has died.

[4] Post-war Reconciliation Slogan in early 1970s Nigeria.

[5] The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse – Conquest (either Christ or the anti-Christ), Famine, War and Death.

My Late Summer Garden by Sue Akande

credit: Sue Akande

There’s talk of morning fog on the forecast,

Leaves on my Sumac are starting to turn,

Cooler evenings are now drawing in fast,

Yes, summer will be over all too soon.

Yet the sun is still warm this August morn,

As I enjoy my late summer garden.

Butterflies on the Buddleia adorn,

Rowan with its scarlet fruits is laden,

Plump blackberries soon to be harvested.

The wood pigeon coos its familiar refrain,

Bees are buzzing, late blooms are targeted,

Crocosmia, Fuchsia, Cranesbill remain.

 

My late summer garden gives such pleasure,

And I am thankful for all its treasure. 

A (further) Sonnet to Green by Irena Szirtes

‘Tis hues of tangled green afloat the pools,

Encircling bundled trunks in Hurcott's wood-

‘Tis oft the colour my fair cheeks have donned,

When I have piggy-gorged on sump'tous food!

‘Tis woodland rolling far before my eye,

‘Tis jewelled moss and lichen in the dew,

‘Tis snowdrop spears and ivied arbored paths-

Ah b***** I am lost, what can I do?

Lost maiden wand'ring on and further on,

In labyrinthine trails of tangled green,

While verdure sweet I smarted for, desired,

Conceals me close, when I must needs be seen!

As long as men can breathe or eyes can see,

I crave, prithee, their eyes may light on me!

A Sonnet to the Earth by Jennie Hart

 Beneath the soil another world to see

A wonderland of habitats concealed

A treasure trove of creatures moving free

No fear their precious homes will be revealed

 

A lively worm its purpose to digest

The debris, flower and stem that fade and die

A butterfly asleep, its shielding nest

A chrysalis, from which one day she’ll fly

 

Fascinating microscopic life forms

Divide and multiply under the ground

The snail snug in its house extends soft horns

Which sense the earthy perfumes all around

 

Seedlings unfurl their first leaves, green and fresh

A robin trills; the world with spring’s awash

Sonnet by Kath Norgrove

It is now that time of year

beware of the lost soul

that comes forth from graves so near,

don't scream and lose control

 

It appears from the dark

wailing, in a sphere of white

and horror grips your heart

as it gives you a fright

 

From below some eaves

a shrieking bat,

whilst playing below in the leaves

is the witches familiar, a cat

 

and t'is best you do believe

for this is old all hallows eve.

Autumn Sonnet by Stuart Hough

Once eternal, Summer nods tired envy to her seasonal sister.

 

The bright hues of Autumn come to heed her plea.  

 

Heralds of bright droplets on cold winds and a whisper.  

 

In ev’ry new drop, her new world set free.  

 

Sweet dreams to Summer dethroned, a bow of her head.   

 

Come lay with me Summer, with memories of self-sacrifice.  

 

Ascendant Autumn how soon will be Winter, colour all bled?  

          

Glorious Summer, yours is the golden reign to your sisters thrice  

 

Your bounty to nourish through hard, cold days and long,  

 

A sister playing her part in the melody of life.  

 

The land laments your passing with sweetness of song.  

 

The wood pigeon’s calls, echoes our strife,  

  

“Don’t go! No! Sum-mer.”

“Don’t go! No! Sum-mer.”

Charred Autumn (A sonnet) by Jennie Hart

Endured survived, a year of heat and drought

And hurricanes ferocious in their power

Uprooted trees and tore the food crops out

Brought fears our planet faced its final hour

 

Ukraine a victimised and tortured land

Cried out for help to counter Putin’s wrath

Zelensky in his combats took command

Will passion for the homeland be enough

 

The queen is dead King Charles is on the throne

The other Queen Liz hung on to her reign

Now Rishi rules and she is overthrown

Is it a poison chalice he has gained

 

Autumn in all its loveliness is charred

With flames and tears our cherished earth is scarred 

Autumn Sonnet for 2022 by Elizabeth Obadina

Summer ended in a blaze of glory

In a glitter of bronze, silver and gold.

Now news channels disgorge diff’rent stories

O’er wilted blooms for golden days grown cold.

Slate-grey thunder clouds swirl, dance and muster

Turbulent hurricanes, floods, and typhoons.

Autumnal tyrants and swindlers bluster

Howling old falsehoods to out of date tunes.

Whilst beech, hazel and chestnuts spill rich fruit

Nature slows, sighs and sleeps ‘neath the chill rain

And oak trees dump acorns hoping they’ll shoot

Into new trees should next spring bloom again. 

But first winter, which brews grim, ice-cold fears

Of earth lying frozen for a thousand years.

Autumn - We've kept going with the 'New Normal' of 2020 but we do miss our meetings in 'The Shakespeare'! Feeling a bit discombobulated is nothing new: from the local bard himself - Sonnet 73 - a seasonal offering about loss, change and love.

 

SONNET 73

That time of year thou may'st in me behold
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.
In me thou see'st the twilight of such day,
As after sunset fadeth in the west,
Which by-and-by black night doth take away,
Death's second self, that seals up all in rest.
In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,
As the death-bed whereon it must expire
Consum'd with that which it was nourish'd by.
   This thou perceivest, which makes thy love more strong,
   To love that well which thou must leave ere long.

by William Shakespeare

 

To Bella ~~~ a sonnet by Elizabeth Obadina

Blue eyed Bella, well at least in one eye,

Is mischievous, so lively and so smart.

She plays and enchants and gives her whole heart

To those she lives with, whose sides she stays by.

Though born for cold alps, she swims in the sea

Magics from shaggy to sleek, furry fish!

Though born to pull carts, she once made a wish

To dig holes, to find love and to run free.

Up in Valhalla, her ancestors saw

The sad, left-behind pup in the litter

And cast digital spells to protect her,

Thus blessing kind folk with one small pup more.

Dreams come true. Bella brings blessings divine

As she sees heaven and earth at one time. *

*Heterochromia irides is unusual in Bernese Mountain Dogs.

There are some myths surrounding the condition such as Native Americans believe that dogs with one blue eye and one brown eye can see both heaven and earth at the same time.

Some myths say those dogs that possess two different coloured eyes are natural protectors. Another legend states that sledge dogs with heterochromia are faster than their dual-coloured-eyed counterparts. 

 

Everlasting by Sue Akande ( a sonnet dedicated to Mum and Dad )

I love my garden, foliage so green,

The passion flower with blooms exotic,

My Clematis, its mauve petals supreme,

Honeysuckle, evening scent hypnotic.

I think of the plants from my Dad and Mum,

Flame Crocosmia, pink Anemone,

Red Fuchsia and purple Geranium,

A love for the garden, their gift to me.

Buddleia, bees and butterflies adore,

And the herbs, with their beautiful fragrance.

As time goes on I appreciate more,

My little patch, these plants from my parents.

The joys of watching nature unfurling,

Nurturing nature ~ nature nurturing.

Photos: Sue Akande

Lockdown 2020 by Elizabeth Obadina

A sonnet suggested by the bible verses:

When I was a child, I spake as a child,

I understood as a child, I thought as a child:

but when I became a man, I put away

childish things. For now we see through a

glass, darkly; but then face to face: now

I know in part; but then shall I know even

as also I am known.

King James Bible

1. Corinthians 13 v11-12

As a child, I watched a beam of sunshine

Illume dust motes suspended in timeless

Free fall: drifting in rainbow shafts which signed

Deep peace, beauty and profound happiness.

Such spells without beginnings or endings

Were shattered by grown-up worries and woes.

Listen! Get moving! Try multi-tasking!

Responsibilities interposed.

Sunbeams lost in childhood, yet sometimes glimpsed

But through a glass, darkly; swiftly forgot.

Fun or not, time flies faster as age sprints

Like an unstoppable blind, juggernaut.

But stopped, face to face with twenty-twenty,

Time gifts space to muse and sunbeams to see.

Elizabeth Obadina on Medium.com

A sonnet to the sea and shore by Jennie Hart

Photo: Jennie Hart

Soft sand lies smooth on the deserted beach,

Amongst rough shingle and sharp rocks and coves,

A headland with deep caves lies out of reach,

And seagulls call and cry in swooping droves.

Waves froth and pulse and seethe on to the shore,

Spilling from dark depths a salty spray,

Then pulled by gravity subside once more,

In never-ending, hypnotic display.

Sea hides its colour, it reflects the day,

Portraying storms or skies of powder blue,

Of charcoal, cobalt, amethyst or grey,

A moving mirror, catching every hue.

Beneath this silver brine, a teeming mass

Of life, in every form miraculous.