Off to a brilliant event on Saturday afternoon. Harlow Writers Group (who have previously won an award for being amongst the best writers in the country), had their special annual meet at the Civic Centre, in which members read their own writings and poems. This was my third year attending and I was asked as MP to make some short opening remarks. I said the writers group was not just important to the writers themselves, but to Harlow as a whole, particularly as the town faces problems with illiteracy - and the lack of a proper book shop. Harlow Writers Group helps to promote the culture of books, writing and reading everywhere.
The standard was exceptional, and I reproduce below some of the readings:
No More Baked Beans by Adrienne Tinn
Each evening comes the call to tea,
“Baked beans on toast tonight!”
Those orange blobs on burnt brown bread -
I hate the bloody sight!
The opener carves up the tin.
They splat as out they drop.
That simmering, the sickly smell,
The bubble and the pop.
The knife that tussles with the toast,
The fork that grips each lump,
The sauce that slithers down my chin
Gives me the blooming hump.
At school they call me Rumbletum.
I know the reason why!
They hold their nose as I walk past
And look up to the sky.
It’s not my fault. I hate the stuff.
For choice I’d eat no more.
But every day it waits for me
As I come through the door.
I had a dream the other night.
My mum stood, pan in hand,
“I’ve two tins here for you my love.
Now aint that really grand?”
I grimaced and I turned my back,
“Dear mum, you cannot stay!”
Pulled down my jeans, erupted loud
And blew her clean away.
The Show must Go on by Rosemary Porter
The show must go on
“Next of Kin have been informed”
Another stage is cleared
No curtain call
The tragedy continues off stage.
How long must mothers watch
The measured steps of Helmand comrades
Bravely shouldering brothers
Draped in Union Flags
Listening with weary ears
Glistening eyes and smothered sobs
To the Last Post.
19, 29, 39, too young to die!
More songs to sing
More tears to shed
More jokes to tell
More first nights
More curtain calls.
National anthem
Cenotaph backdrop
Stage in darkness.
Mothers, fathers, lovers walk away
Taliban bombs ringing in their ears.
Another audience will take their place
Journey of the Druid by Rosemary Porter
I come from Tara on the hill
A journey fraught with fear
The High King priests and fellow druids
Believe the end is near
There is unrest and fissured faith
In the gods we thought supreme
They tell us there’s a new man god
Whose beacon they have seen
Philosophers and soothsayers
A new kingdom foretell
Druids Celts and bold Cu Chullain
Redeemed from death and hell
Mega Lithos structures crumble
Like the sands on the sea shore
I pilgrimage with heavy heart
Can the gods not offer more
The rough ways of the Esker Riada
The toghers of the blackest bog
Sap my faith my hope my life
I forage through the densest fog
A restless godless people search
For a human deity
Facing west with a darkened heart
Yearning to be free
A river great impedes my way
A light shines clear and bright
A holy man with arms outstretched
Welcomes me this night
His name is Kiaraun his message clear
The Christ has risen for us all
For druids priests for alien people
Paid the price for Adams fall
I stayed and prayed in this holy place
Clonmacnoise welcomed me
I paid my dues to my fathers go.
I believe in a trinity.
I believe in a trinity.
by Robert Halfon - www.roberthalfon.blogspot.com
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