Thursday, November 24, 2011
Sussex Poetry
Today I described and listed half a dozen more books on EBay.
I have one by my side that I may regret selling - I hadn't realised until I began to read it, just how much I valued it.
Maybe it won't sell - it was hard to give it a concise heading.
It is a collection of writings, mostly poetry, written by West Sussex Primary School children in 1962.
That was a long time ago - those children are now aged about 60.
The poems are all very readable and most are not twee; they have been well thought out - no doubt aided and abetted by good teachers.
Sadly, the names of the writers are not included; maybe a poem was a group project.
This one was submitted by Pound Hill Junior School in Crawley.
Could it possibly be the work of Sue?
As I Watched.
People are hurrying, scurrying, flurrying,
Over the pavements of Crawley Town.
The fountain is rushing, gushing, blushing
Into the air and plumetting down.
Women are chattering, bustling, hustling
Quietening their children gay.
Cars are tooting, hooting, parping,
As they go forward on their way.
The child, 50 years ago, could have been looking at that post card.
The poems cover town and country, Downland and coast, flora and fauna.
What a shame it is just about West Sussex.
For I would love to have tied it into a request my brother received about the artists who lived at Furlong Farm on the South Downs, where my family would camp each summer.
I rather ignored them - I was a child/teenager and I tended to mistrust earnestness amongst adults. Like adolescents everywhere, I assumed they could know nothing of the intensity of my life and loves.
Wrong!
The artists were free to pursue whatever intense feelings came their way.
I was far too late anyway, to meet one of my later heroes of art - Eric Ravilious. Wow! he's had a mention twice this week already!
But both West and East Sussex have The South Downs.
Here is a poem written by a child at Bosham School.
As I look away from the top of the hill
On an old fashioned village
With its tumbledown mill,
Winding cart tracks, rutted and worn,
Running by fields of shimmering corn,
I see far away match box spire and towers
And at my feet are rare Downland flowers.
I have one by my side that I may regret selling - I hadn't realised until I began to read it, just how much I valued it.
Maybe it won't sell - it was hard to give it a concise heading.
It is a collection of writings, mostly poetry, written by West Sussex Primary School children in 1962.
That was a long time ago - those children are now aged about 60.
The poems are all very readable and most are not twee; they have been well thought out - no doubt aided and abetted by good teachers.
Sadly, the names of the writers are not included; maybe a poem was a group project.
This one was submitted by Pound Hill Junior School in Crawley.
Could it possibly be the work of Sue?
As I Watched.
People are hurrying, scurrying, flurrying,
Over the pavements of Crawley Town.
The fountain is rushing, gushing, blushing
Into the air and plumetting down.
Women are chattering, bustling, hustling
Quietening their children gay.
Cars are tooting, hooting, parping,
As they go forward on their way.
The child, 50 years ago, could have been looking at that post card.
The poems cover town and country, Downland and coast, flora and fauna.
What a shame it is just about West Sussex.
For I would love to have tied it into a request my brother received about the artists who lived at Furlong Farm on the South Downs, where my family would camp each summer.
I rather ignored them - I was a child/teenager and I tended to mistrust earnestness amongst adults. Like adolescents everywhere, I assumed they could know nothing of the intensity of my life and loves.
Wrong!
The artists were free to pursue whatever intense feelings came their way.
I was far too late anyway, to meet one of my later heroes of art - Eric Ravilious. Wow! he's had a mention twice this week already!
But both West and East Sussex have The South Downs.
Here is a poem written by a child at Bosham School.
As I look away from the top of the hill
On an old fashioned village
With its tumbledown mill,
Winding cart tracks, rutted and worn,
Running by fields of shimmering corn,
I see far away match box spire and towers
And at my feet are rare Downland flowers.
Labels: Sussex
