Spotlight Star

Spotlight on a Star

This is a new, occasional series, where I spotlight someone I think has talent, or whose work I love and enjoy or respect.

The third author to be in the spotlight is a lady called Joy Edwards, who wrote this poem following 'a heat blasted summer' several decades ago. Permission kindly granted by her via the Friends of Croome.

Rotunda, Croome Court
(C) Heather King

Croome Court Rotunda

Parchment grass trampled underfoot

scrunches like midsummer rime-frost.

Startled wood pigeons panic,

shower cascades of bronzed needles

onto the dusty woodland floor.

A hot, dry desert of an afternoon;

my dog quivers with canine excitement

and pants furnace-blasted breath.

Stops, sniffs hidden delights, yelps

then races away into the undergrowth;

this is terrier paradise and he is in Heaven.

I search for the vague outline on the ground.

Each year Nature buries the path deeper,

disguising the route of high society's

after-dinner strolls; bored children's

sedate walks with nursemaid or shriven tutor.

Young lovers first exploratory kiss,

stolen moments under a romantic moon.

Leaves whisper secrets overhead,

while wraiths shimmer in the heat.

"Afternoon tea in the Rotunda, today James"

I can almost hear M'lady's imperious voice.

My burning feet reach the summit

Crowned by Mr Brown's neglected building.

Felled timbers lie strewn around,

musky cedar wood perfumes the air

and sends my senses reeling

with hedonistic delight.

Every familiar sound and sense

must be indelibly marked,

for every season brings change

and the time will come

when I can no longer return

by Joy Edwards 

***

The second author to be in the spotlight is Giselle Marks, talented author, poet and editor, to name but a few of her skills. I am most grateful she has also given me permission to post her evocative poem on my blog.



Self-portrait Leon Cogniel c 1817-18
Courtesy Wikimedia commons

HISTORY MEN by Giselle Marks

 Artistically windswept or closely cropped

 With such arrogance they stare at me

 Daring me to criticise their vanity.

 Those men from so long ago

 Still have such power to sway me

 To feel their presence even now

 And care about what they had to say. 

The artists made them live anew

And their words bring them back to me.

From brief lives of glorious glamour

Dying tragically far too young

Yet they seem to have only begun

Burning me with their fire. 

How their ghosts still inspire

And seep into my soul

Those men long gone,

Yet my fascination only grows

They wander through my thoughts

And will not be dismissed. 

They want me to believe their

Short existence was worth while

They need my love to warm their bones

Even in cold death they reach for my

Heart and I cannot refuse

Them and so I sigh. 

But their force and attraction

Impels my adoration for

Those great men of action,

Those poets of yore

I worship from the future

And wish I could give more. 

I wish to touch and embrace

To hear them speak or to praise,

And with necromancy raise

Their corporeal bodies back on earth

So I may experience the truth

Of their existence

Contact Giselle

http://ginafiserova.wix.com/gisellemarks
https://www.facebook.com/mythicmiscellany
http://gisellemarksthoughts.wordpress.com/
http://gisellemarksauthor.wordpress.com/2013/11/07/33/
https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/7304857.Giselle_Marks

***

This is the first in a new, occasional series, where I spotlight someone I think has talent, or whose work I love and enjoy or respect.

The first post features a young friend of mine, Flora Barber, who goes to school in Malvern and is a budding talent in many creative arenas. She is artistic, articulate, intelligent and a poet of no mean ability, as you will see. I fully expect her to be Poet Laureate one day! I am honoured she has given me permission to post it here.

BBC Hereford & Worcester Radio held a competition recently to Search For The Poet. This is the winning poem in the 13 - 17 age category, the senior group.

HOME - by Flora Barber

A cough, a wheeze, nothing more, just a normal day.
It’ll pass; fade in the absence of concentration.
It’s what they always say.
“Go out to play, you’ll be home soon.”
How many more steps can I bear?
I just want to sleep, find comfort and warmth
To feel safe, protected from the whirlwind outside.

I was drowning on air, screaming but not a whisper leaving my lips.
Can they not see me? Could they not hear me?
My chest is heaving, every breath choking;
Help please, help, I’m being crushed from inside.
My muscles seizing, trembling, heavy with no sensation.
I’m fighting, slipping away, each second a lifetime.
All those people staring, talking, pointing.
I just want to go home.


How did I end up here? All these cables and tubes,
Flashing lights in my eyes.
Why wouldn’t they just go away?
Let me go home, I’m crying, trying to say.
I just wanted to be left alone.
Their words, all this noise, like an orchestra in free-fall.
I just wanted to go home.


The whole world fades away, I’m falling.
I don’t want this struggle, this pain.
Falling down, deeper,
Faster, trying, gasping.
Their confused calm, panicked patience,
These flashes of consciousness, the effect of suffocation.
I just wanted to be left alone.
Begging then to stop, let in the silent darkness.
I just wanted to go home.


The stars, like fireflies, they dance through the midnight.
Like a phoenix, igniting, flaming, burning brilliantly.
The ashes fade, crinkling, crisply crackling.
Fading, burning out, we’ll disappear on a gasp of air.
Tossed onto a wayward wind.
It‘s pitch black and we’ll never see the sun again.
Our voices, just whispering echoes in the back of their minds.
All I wanted was just to go home.

Text © Flora Barber

Photograph © Heather King