Holly Winter-Hughes Visits The Hive and Celebrates 'My Worcestershire' with Workshop Participants
On the 26th of October Holly Winter-Hughes paid a visit to Worcester and worked with visitors to the library. People wrote on the theme of 'My Worcestershire' and a great time was had by all.
What the library staff said:
"It was a really lovely session and the participants were very enthusiastic and engaged well. They all wrote some great pieces, which they have refined and sent through."
"10 out of 10"
What the workshop participants said if the'd discovered anything new during the session:
"I discovered new poetry events locally that I had no knowledge of before"
"That everyone has a different writing style but they are all equally profound and beautiful"
The participants were very keen to be more involved with poetry events locally and Holly was absolutely brilliant.
Poems submitted by the participants for display at The Hive:
In shadow of the Malverns by Anne Hodnette
Lay me in a valley once covered by waves,
in shadow of the moel-bryn, where bare peaks
climb above English counties
to brood onto Welsh mountains.
Shield me with granite forged from fire,
in umbra of rock so hard
that shrub does not trouble its fissures
nor grass adhere to its spine.
Let my cradle be gravel and shell,
draped in algae and kelp,
rocked by sea dragon and star fish.
And leave me, with glad heart,
my freedom.
Note: Moel-bryn – ancient British for bare hill.
At the beginning of Silurian times ice melted and sea levels rose. The Malverns formed the eastern shoreline of the Welsh Sea.
The Muse of the Malverns by Peter Sutton
The Malverns are cloaked in a mantle of music:
concert halls, concert clubs, churches and choirs,
makers and menders of musical instruments,
freelance performers, professionals, buskers,
teachers, trios, quartets and wind bands,
string players, soloists, beginners and strummers,
organists, orchestras, amateur singers
caught at the cusp of three carolling counties,
combining in sacred and secular splendour
in the first, the finest and oldest festival
of choral music, the cloistered Three Choirs,
echoing over the years from Hereford,
Cromwellian Gloucester and workaday Worcester,
the steel-eyed city where Elgar schemed,
listened and heard the allure of the lyre.
Raw – by Polly Stretton
I think of feet that tramp and tread waved hills,
of stories, songs and poems stone tracks inspire,
of creatures great and small with shouts and trills,
of men and myths of monsters, faeries, giants.
A million years and more, they've stood to brood,
a vale eruption, ridgebacked, raw and proud,
they beckon, call upon us to intrude,
and haunting bluebell oceans trumpet loud.
Yet when I climb those taxing slopes once more,
to see the valleys spread out far below,
it is like searching for an ancient shore,
that seeing through a spyglass cannot show,
the light and shade illuminated when
my eyes are dim and I shan't come again.
© 2019 Polly Stretton
Growing Places (Black Pear Press, 2021)
Places of Poetry (website 2019)
Poetry of Worcestershire (Offa's Press, 2019)
Severn in Winter - by Roger Noons
Thick swathes of stubborn fog
bathe the landscape in white. Surreal appearance;
dreamlike experience, provides source of magical images.
Milky grey layers render known scenes alien;
familiar surroundings eerie, as haze dampens
sound, and obstructs the view.
Bare branches of trees pierce
grey veil to dance on cotton wool.
Droplets of water disperse light,
blur contours; vapourising then condensing,
generating smoke which floats above the river.
Wind wafts away mist
revealing other world shapes.
Gnarled branches of weather-sculpted
trees stretch into the sky. Old beeches,
mature hawthorn and wizened blossom-bearers,
transformed into glittering, enchanting kingdom.
Grey-brown trunks, covered
with ice crystals, dusted with snow
curve and twist, wind and curl; turn and kink; a labyrinth
of branches and twigs, crystallised by cold; frozen in time.
As clouds drift, cobalt sky appears.
Backdrop to peripheral pasture; frame for faraway firs.
Fleeting sunbeams flood the scene, their warmth no threat
to below zero temperatures. As time passes, the sun warms;
orbs low, golden in a greying sky, before falling from view.
Dispersing another wondrous, winter’s day.
Sabrina - by Roger Noons
For my late father Lawson an enthusiastic angler.
I know he has a mistress, often in his dreams.
She with unseen depths, swerving around Blackstone point.
He will join her during the night, eager to share the sun’s rise;
admire her flowing features; warm to her glassy veneer.
Sitting for hours, eyes closed, he listens to her rhythmic song,
breathes her musky scent; yearns for her touch and flavour.
He gives her presents, cast towards her silky surface;
embraced by her lazy rhythm, but never seen again.
Jealous of other admirers, he sneers and shouts at rivals
who break into her reflections; challenging her wiles.
Though generous in her welcome, will never be a one man girl.
Reckless with her charms, he’s one of many lovers.
Yes, I know about his mistress, and am always willing to share.
Dare not risk a challenge, for he may choose her not me.
‘Severn,’ is apparently derived from the nymph, Sabrina (Hafren in Welsh) who drowned in the river.
Blackstone lies between Bewdley and Stourport.
Gypsies in Bournheath in the 1950’s – by Frankie Turberville
The gypsies are here. They’re here again.
Hooves clopping past the window
on their way to the Pepperwoods.
Go down there if you dare and see the
colourful caravans, tethered horses,
women tending cooking pots
over smoking wood fires. The sounds of
dogs barking, children crying, men shouting.
The expected heavy knock on the door.
I peep from behind my mother’s skirt
and see the dark, weathered face.
Heavy gold earrings stretching the pierced hole,
Long drab clothes and a basket of wares:
pegs, lace, white heather.
Buy something off a gypsy to bring you luck;
Decline, and risk a gypsy curse.
Redditch by Rob Harris
Sprawled out across
A scooped salad bowl
The crash site of a hope filled
Space craft, pieced together
With lofty intentions
And sticky back plastic
Cut short on its journey
To a bright new future
And scattered wholesale
Amongst the leys
Suckered in beyond hope
To the red ditch fell
An interstellar galleon
Trapped in a no man’s vacuum like a
Farm gate wellington
And between the flaccid wreckage
Of complex ducting and fuselage
Weeds and trees grow abundantly
Indifferent to the cosmic plans
Excitedly rendered in long past galaxies
Residents of the good ship
Housed in pods, linked with beads
And roads and paths and
something still yet to be invented
Connected and held in sparkling webs
No person left without purpose
All intrinsic to the bright new dawn
All integral to manifesting destiny
All held in indefinite gestation
For a rapture perpetually deferred
The domestic modules
Dreary now and mildewed
Inhabited by refugees from
A failed civilisation in a nearby constellation
Real humans non the less
With their own dreams, albeit smaller
Making lives that matter
Amongst the remnants
Each new generation slips a little
Their grip loosening on the destination
Stuffed with concerns of the self
No time to indulge in nostalgic hope
It’s architectural wreckage laying
Unnoticed around them
They look back on our space fairing Fathers and With pity ask,
If this is the future we imagined
Who would build an arc to this place?
Meanwhile the million or so trees
Sway in unison,
Their roots lifting tarmac
While you sleep
They have thier own plans too
They’ve seen us come and go before
Serenely oblivious to the folly of hope
Or other inventions of the human mind
All the old life is here too
The hedgehog, the fox, the badger
Some bird, a flash of electric blue
As alien to us as any imagined future
It’s understood this craft will
Never fly again
So the council keep its parts
Clean and well maintained
And we think perhaps if we wait
The future might come to find us instead
Rooted – by Sarah Hindley
My city is a rooted tree
Reaching towards the open sky
While always standing firm, grounded.
Growing deeper, seeping into the soil
While merging with the air we breathe
To keep us all rooted too.
It’s the proud tree that signals home
After a long, tiring journey.
Standing singularly resolute on the ancient hill near Junction 7
Resilient and far older than the cars and roads
Which disrupt and pollute its environment.
It is the gnarled tree where King Charles II sought refuge
During bloody battle
Or the sinister, dark woods where Oliver Cromwell
Supposedly made a deal with the Devil;
Where legends are made and are still told.
It’s the expansive tree that changes gradually with the seasons
Next to the Cathedral.
Where pale purple crocuses bloom
Sheltered under leaves of burnt orange and rust brown,
Leaves which will soon wither and die
While the tree is reborn, grounded.
It’s the apple tree where my two best furry friends
Torment the warbling birds and each other
As I watch their paws and claws
Grasp and clasp
As they play.
The tree remaining unbending
Unrelenting
Keeping them safe.
My city is the rooted tree that marks my home
Where I create my own legends
Which stays with me through all the seasons
Where I have found my best friends
And my peace.
To the Races - by Roger Noons
It’s Thursday, I’m off to Pitchcroft,
racecourse alongside the river.
Afternoon of excitement and colour,
trusting thoroughbreds to deliver.
Morning paper studied at length,
runners, riders and odds,
last week’s results poured over,
though success in the hands of the Gods.
Seven races between two and five,
Bookie selected from list,
ten pound each way bets
more flutter of hope than gift.
Now the Going is good, I get going
trust Jonjo, Skelton and Pipe.
Fingers crossed for Tom, Ben and Bridget,
put my faith in the chevrons and stripes.
In the grandstand, try to stay quiet,
let those on the rail wave and scream.
Keep slips in my pocket ’til the finish,
an extra few moments to dream.
Afternoon passes in sunshine,
Race card annotated at length.
Let down by Favourite after favourite,
look to heaven; please give me strength.
Chasing Seagulls – by Johnny ‘Mogs’ Morris
I’m a cruel killer hawk,
Brought to the city to stalk
The seagulls that gather there in a noisy crowd.
They feed on rubbish tips,
Attack and steal folks’ chips,
Poo everywhere and are really far too loud.
On Worcester’s rooves they nest,
Locals say, “We want a rest
Why are they here, we thought seagulls live by the sea?”
So now they’ve brought me in
The slaughter can begin,
They’ll soon be gull free once I start my killing spree.
But what I’d not expected,
The darn things are protected!
Who’d have thought that seagulls were on the endangered list.
They’re not exactly rare,
These days they’re everywhere,
if I topped a few I’m sure they would not be missed.
But I’m told, no gulls must die,
Just give them the ‘evil eye’,
All I need to do is perch on roofs and look mean.
But what’s required is gull gore,
An attack with beak and claw,
I’m not a scarecrow, I’m a cruel killing machine.
I just don’t understand
Why seagull murder’s banned,
Though I stare at them, their number just increases.
I’ve become a laughing stock,
On Worcester’s rooves they flock
And every building’s now the colour of gull faeces.
The answer is clear to me
To get them back to the sea
And empty seagulls from every city street.
With your rubbish, take more care,
Don’t throw it everywhere.
They’d soon clear off if there was nowt for them to eat.
(Worcester Council brought a hawk into the city to get rid of the ‘seagull problem’.)
WORCESTER CATHEDRAL – by Rob Lowe
Dr John Hough, Bishop of Worcester, 1717 to 1743,
He opposed the Rage of Popish Tyranny, so his memorial says.
But now the children’s cries in the cathedral (for this is a friendly place)
Are lost in its vast roof, and sound to me as lonely as those saints
Interred in stained glass, blue and green, in a window otherwise blank.
At Holy Communion, I sat with my niece in a pew near the back,
Made of veined oak and shiny with use. We rested on cushions and comfortably watched
The slow steps of the pious as they queued in the aisle to be blessed
And to take of the bread and the wine. They seemed resigned
Asif this were already a ceremony of mourning, and not an affirmation of faith.
Perhaps it was – for all of us march through the days to our deaths;
No act of rebellion can alter that, as the soul goes to heaven or hell.
After the service, in the Chapter House, sipping tea and munching a biscuit,
While talking with Jocelyn and Dennis, two educated elderly folk
Who made of the Church and of Christ a retirement work, and were happy
The Chapter House had a central pillar, which rose like a flower into the roof
And its dome of belief in a fountain shape, spouting, spreading, falling to loss,
Gave is a shelter under that. Though sunlight probed through leaded glass,
And shattered in a thousand pieces, we came to no harm. In fact, were at peace.
The Jesus chapel was open for prayer. Later, I sat writing there. And this is the result.
Francini’s Café in Worcester – by David Allsopp
Buzzing colours boing and bounce
And spread with vibrant warmth
Throughout the room,
The coffee oozes with soily earthiness
And brims and bristles then sways then sings,
Lively objects flutter like birds
Enwrapped in the wind.
Life - teeming sap-filled life,
Rises and falls and infuses each and every
Edge and corner.
Worcester is a… -by Charlotte Fletcher
Worcester is a jumble sale,
where I forage items each with their own tale,
each item once belonging to someone, now left for another eye,
before let go, said goodbye,
carrying in my used plastic bag,
A reduced price tag.
Worcester is a music disk,
where memorable lyrics exist,
the sounds of guitar strings,
while a busker sings.
Worcester is a picture book,
glimpsing photos took,
are passed down,
and live within the town.
The Birthplace Statue – by Peter Sutton
Do find the time to take a trip
to the homespun hamlet of Lower Broadheath
and the tiny two-up, two-down cottage
where Elgar first heard his heaven-sent airs.
Imagine his mother making up rhymes,
reciting, encouraging, catechizing,
glimpse the children playing games in the garden,
his father waving as he went off to work.
Peruse the catholic range of his reading,
the pictures, posters, personal notes,
the scribbles, the sketches and autographed scores,
and listen to the land where his music belongs.
Sit in silence beside his statue
on the garden bench and gaze through the gap
in the hedge at the harmonic Malvern Hills;
follow the lilting, melodious line.
Stour Cut - by Stan Bloxham
Great James Brindley planned it
and the navvies did the work.
Complete on time and budget
for not a man did shirk.
From Severn trow to narrow boat
required a tontine and a basin.
Fast growing town called Stourport
Little Mitton soon forgotten.
Imports came up from Bristol
Midlands industry to feed.
Glassware, pottery, textiles
to fulfil the export need.
Tough men and sturdy wives
with kids and dogs and hoss.
Hard days of locks and tunnels
To stave off financial loss.
Commerce now gone but still
cut filled with bobbing floats.
Walkers, cyclists on the towpath
passing brightly-coloured boats.
*’Stour Cut’ is the local name for the
Stourport end of the Staffs and Worcester Canal.
My Worcestershire – by Chris Johnston
What I know of Worcestershire I've learned from Wikipedia
And tiny little snippets that I've gleaned from social media
It varies from dry facts to half truths and vague impressions
It's not even where I thought it was (how's that for real confessions)
Now I could talk of shire towns from Malvern Hills to Bewdley
Of castles, court, cathedral, I could rattle on quite shrewdly
Praise the rivers and the railways, and the Needle Mill Museum,
The safari park and Tithe Barn, hoping someday I might see ‘em
Truth is, modern middle England is a place completely alien
To an Irish expat poet, (living West Coast style Canadian)
Though I dimly thought I'd been once on a festival or day trip
No - that was Warwick Castle (pardon my homonymic slip)
But my love of Worcestershire began and continues still to thrive
With a bubble of a concept from its library at the Hive
In the darkest days of lockdown, when life was full of trouble
I stumbled by such happy chance upon a poet’s bubble
A virtual writer’s haven for linguistic sweet endeavour
Full of mirth and joy and humour, and witty people being clever
In those dark days of pandemic ‘twas a beacon of salvation
Illuminating lives so far beyond its little island nation
That forged bonds of community twixt poets far and wide
With respite for artistic souls that kept hope alive inside
And we, we happy few, we band of bubble denizens
Lay claim as honorary Worcestershire virtual citizens
With Polly’s & Amanda’s steady hands upon the tiller
The virtual sphere is filled with verse, all killer and no filler
If that legacy is doubted, then I can amply reassure
So many corners ‘cross the globe are now forever Worcestershire
My Worcestershire – by Elen D
Born in Worcester
at the old hospital, now flats. So sad.
But there's a new hospital, the Royal Hospital.
I love the walks along the river,
swans and cygnets
are amazing.
The sun shining on the river
is a wonderful sight.
Although I was born in Worcester
I have Welsh in me:
Mum from South Wales,
Dad from North Wales,
me a Malvern girl all my life.
Knowing I’m home when I see the Malvern Hills in the distance,
Malvern theatres
bring the West End to Malvern often.
I really love living in Worcestershire.
Although it is being destroyed for more and more houses,
beautiful countryside still surrounds us.
County Lines – by Johnny ‘Mogs’ Morris
For centuries county lines had ebbed and flowed,
but once, Worcestershire’s boundary rope embraced us.
Halesowen, precariously balanced on the edge
of the Black Country’s scowl and Nature’s emerald smile.
With backs to grimy factory walls
there was greenery as far as the imagination could see.
I skinned knees on its football pitch tarmac,
grazed elbows on its racetrack pavements,
scrumped its apples,
kissed its girls
and left a childhood of memories haunting the streets.
Perhaps just the rose-tinted yesterdays of a boy, but
Worcestershire’s summers seemed brighter,
Winters, whiter.
Then one day
we were cast adrift by bureaucracy,
left to flounder in the grey sprawl
of the West Midland conurbation.
The tantalising greenery lapping at my door
seeming suddenly out of reach.
Nothing had changed, but somehow everything had
and we were part of the ‘Shire’ no more.
(Included in Worcestershire Anthology, Offah’s Press 2019))
Call of home – Worcestershire by Anne Hodnette
I come from folk who straddled borders,
navigated ways, worked rivers and canals,
toiled in forges, factories and glassworks,
moved on to survive.
Born to Worcestershire,
passed to Dudley, threaded with Hereford,
Staffordshire, Gloucestershire —
where shall I call home?
The Stour’s banks where I picnicked, played?
The rock face of Habberley,
formidable slopes of the Malverns,
with breeze at my back, world at my feet?
My beacon, the nightly glow of cathedral
rising above swift flowing river,
rush of whistle and steam
through Trimpley’s bluebell wood.
Warp and weft of hills and rivers,
thread through my journey —
a promise of peace summons and gentles —
the call of home.
Sara-Jane Arbury Gets 10 out of 10
Sara-Jane Arbury headed to The Hive in Worcestor on 15th June 2023 to run a poetry workshop for Loneliness Awareness Week.
What the library staff said:
The participants enjoyed the workshop very much, the atmosphere was relaxed and it made people feel like they could get creative. Sara-Jane was very friendly and welcoming.
Poetry and Music with Heather Wastie at Chandler Court - 12th June 2023
10 out of 10 was the verdict for this event, which took place at Chandler Court which is a nursing home next to Bromsgrove Library. This was an open activity for residents and the public.
What the library staff said:
"The residents very much enjoyed the session. They recited the poems and they joined in the singing. Heather had curated the session well so that there were humorous and serious poems but ones the residents were familiar with. Great for the library to be part of this and it has helped us to build on a partnership we had started with Chandler Court. Residents are able to visit the library and hopefully will start to participate in our activities in future."
"These type of ‘outreach’ activities, where we take a library & literacy offer out into new settings, are something we’d like to do more of – so I’m pleased it was so well received."
350 People Engaged with Poetry in Redditch - 20th May 2023
Award-winning former Birmingham Poet Laureate Spoz read 100-year-old poetry from Redditch Library archives and created a new composition, 'An Ode to Redditch, working with library customers who attended the library's local history day. Redditch library had its highest footfall since lockdown with a count of over 700 people on the day of the event. Around 350 of those people engaged with the poetry activity. Spoz was, as usual, brilliant.
What the library staff said:
"The activity was great and engaged a lot of people, getting them to talk to one another and get creative which was fantastic given that most of the library users in Redditch don’t usually engage with poetry. A lot of people mentioned that they had a great sense of community throughout."
What the participants said:
"A lovely morning spent joining in with local people and learning about the history of Redditch! The library provided a warm, welcoming space to learn and read up on all aspects of the town's culture and industry. May it always be available and here to provide events such as this!!"
"What a marvellous event and day! Having access to Redditch archives was brilliant - reading poems written in the 19th Century was great. Events like this are so good for the community - and today was so well attended! Thank you!"
Roald Dahl Day at The Hive - Saturday 5th November 2022 – 10:30am-3:00pm
In celebration of this best-loved storyteller there was some phizz-whizzingly brilliant fun to be had over at The Hive in Worcester. There was a range of fantabulous activities. Poetry on Loan sent along award-winning performance poet ‘SPOZ’ who helped the audience to create some seriously silly, squishous and swashboggling poetry inspired by Roald Dahl.
Here is what some of the audience members had to say:
“The kids loved it. Spoz was their (and my) favourite part.”
“Manic but fun.”
“Spoz – brilliant.”
“My son liked everything.”
Poetry Workshop/Rap Battle – 4th November – The Hive
With Alan ‘Kurly’ McGeachie and Dreadlockalien
Here’s what the library staff had to say:
“The students who attended the workshop were very engaged and excited to be part of it. They found the experience entertaining and inspiring and loved the creative tasks they were asked to complete. Both poets were able to make the students relaxed and gave them the confidence to perform their work at the end of the session. The students were still talking about it for days afterwards!
We asked the group to complete our libraries feedback form which measures outcomes in with pre-written statements – the students selected the following outcomes from attending the workshop:
More positive about my mental health and well being
More confident / motivated to read
More inspired to be creative
The Hive was delighted to be able to host the poets and we are looking forward to working with them again.”