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GARDEN POEMS

The great Shugorough Garden Poem competition was a partnership project by Staffordshire Libraries and Shugborough in 2008. Entries had to be not more than 14 lines in length, and inspired by gardens in the broadest sense, which could include the gardens at Shugborough.

The generous prizes were donated by Shugborough.

Thank you to all the people who entered the competition. There were over 70 entries. The fifteen prize winning poems appear on the page and a selection of other entries appear here

FIRST PRIZE WINNERS

AMANDA PARKYN

August Heatwave

In the thickening dark, the corner wall breathes out
more heat. The marguerites’ luminous faces
gleam, pale as children up too late. We catch
the scent of cloves from old rose Blush Noisette.

Dark swords of iris leaves stand stiff, reproachful,
as if I should recall their flaggy petals –
Lilac, were they? – from some far-off land
of freshening winds and blustery May showers.

Tonight we turn away, dreamily finger
the glass in the porch, its thread of mercury
still high. We sigh and lay out cushions. Later
we’ll half-wake to a fox’s bark, then cool dawn.

The irise’s fawn fingers clench hard earth –
they’ll bide their time, wait for next spring’s new birth.

BETI HAND

The neglected garden

The shabby house rests on its rhododendrons,
nettles aspire to pierce the privacy of rooms,
window panes blindly reflect Victorian status trees,
deodar, yew, and Himalayan cedars.

Tall, flowering grasses, tangled vetch,
honeysuckle, buttercups, sorrel, may.
threaten beleagured squares of lawn.

Where once was croquet, and the chink of cups,
the woman’s hammock swings.
No gravel raking gardener disturbs her thoughts,
no one gainsays the rustling truth of leaves.

Dandelion seeds float by, and butterflies;
A tit carries a caterpillar to its brood
in the cracked stucco.

INGRID SCHWARTZ (age 11)

I walked,
Slowly,
Carefully,

Each step,
Light,
Wary,

A pace forward took me deepinto the garden,
A shadowed hollow, dusty and dark,
Perfect place for myself.

What an amazing sight lay in front of my eyes,
A glistening, glittering bay of jewels,
Fabulous area where lay a butterfly,
Wide and proud,
It’s wings spread out like a parachute,
Bright colours, dazzling my mind,

Amazing!

SUSAN FEARN

The Garden Revisited

Early morning:
dew on the grass.
I imagine you there,
touching the lichen on an urn,
your old dog padding towards you
into the day.

Birdsong.
We talked here once.

You turn to the house;
a flock of sparrows
flies over the hedge,
into the sunrise.

SHEILA CULSHAW

The Bounty of Gardening

My trowel digs out marbles, six muddy marbles,
smooth glass globes with waves of yellow.
one big, dark blue, full of bubbles, like space,
rub them clean, weigh them in my hand.

Remember this house with a child inside
the marbles’ journey from bag, to pocket, to garden,
to final burial in the dark.
Push them back where they belong in the earth.

Dead bulbs for worms to pull at blindly,
and push around in this dark loam,
by squirming and nudging,
anticipating they might rot or take root.

We will one day leave our garden behind us
But other boys will claim this bounty as their own.

SECOND PRIZE

ISOBEL GILLARD

Magnolias

No tree cries louder than the sweet magnolia
wreathing its inward space.
twisting its violent arms in desperate grace,
given to wild abandon and a still embrace

Torches it flings upon the day are shaped as cups
streaked with a gentle wine,
pink and white chalices held up, the double sign
of giving and receiving. Unlike the eglantine

It leans on nothing, making its statement clear,
Caught in extravagant ways
its manner’s wild. its generous words are mainly praise.
It listens to itself a lot – means what it says.

LUCY HATHERLEY (age 12)

The Forgotten Garden

Alone in the maze of endless creepers,
A rusty iron gate stands tall, it’s former glory faded,
Its immense bars looming over the enclosed wilderness behind,
Beyond the gate lies a forgotten garden,
The echoes of the children who one played there sounding every moment,
The rotting swing which hangs from the old, but tremendous oak tree,
The slow drip of the rain hitting the cracked stone path beneath,
The feel of the old man gardener who once pruned and cared for the wilderness,
The ancient stone walls covered with emerald green moss,
The cold wind blows as the last dead leaf leaves its branch,
No one has seen or felt these things for many hundreds of years,
And the garden stands perfectly still,
Awaiting someone to discover it,
And to give it love once more.

L I BIRCH

Through the window

With our fanciful glances across the time/space span,
And standing in the house and gazing out
To catch the light of evening across the field
To where the distant redundant railway restricts the view,
The mind is held in pause as it reconstructs
All that has passed in passing carriages, and what will come to pass;
And how much part of the future which has yet to come
Have we become –

The glowing dust and muzzling mist and all weathers
Weave their wonders into our thoughts content.
The hedgerow stiffens with the passing years.
O, how we must so resolutely face our fears.
And the song we sing must be for each occasion –
And occasionally, when we need it, for inspiration.

ROBERT (HMP STAFFORD)

Summer Daze

Glistening rafts of dew tipped grass,
Carpets of colour and beds on flower.
Buzzing blooms of summer, along meandering paths,
The warming sun glints on hot house glass,
A whirr and then a waft of newly mown grass.
Midday casts her mist on rippled pond,
A bloop! An air bubble’s burst.
A swish! An a fish tail turns.
Slowly the lazy sun dips her light on flower,
Into the amber pool of early evening light.
Oh to have seen that sight,
Oh to have been there for an hour.

STEPHANIE SPIERS

Midsummer: garden sunset

Daily are bestowed and freely given, these sublime gifts
of rich largess straight from paradise; from the patio . . . enjoyment lifts.
The springing moss carpet sighs ‘stay a while’, lush greens sway in the lazy breeze,
a thud: wind blown fruit falls, branches yearning to be swung from listening trees.
Beauty in a closing flower. Sun setting through cherry leaves,
the golden tinge of languid midsummer; a mandarin glow at sunset on the eves.
Hanging over the hedgerows, lavender tainted wood smoke
spreading over crushed thyme; a mystery of tamed nature, limed oak.
Behold the voice of the trees! A ripple glides through whispering apple boughs.
Earth-song. Listening with heartfelt intuition the willow lowly bows.
Koi play seek beneath the water lilies. On unripe cherries squabbling starlings alight.
On the pads; their eyes keeping watch, only the frogs now silently await.

Midsummer’s Eve has arrived.

RUNNERS UP

LEAH MARTINEZ (Aged 6)

Thoughts above a garden
(Written phonetically by Leah, aged six)

As the church bell began to ring
The birds started to sing
When I was flowting on the clowed
I saw my house
I wundered how I coulded get home

LEANNE HIBBS (aged 15)

Gardens from the heart

O a place so mystical and as sweetful
As God’s divine sweeping serenity.
Skys windless; flowers blooming full.
Ah! The ardent aroma swooning in the air
Meadows dewy, willows weeping, opulent green
So mesmerizing! I can not bare. (bear ?)
Not to forget the sweeping stillness
All creatures, standing, staring
At all the beauty – the grandness.
O! a hidden secret beneath the luxuriant green,
One mourning flaxen flower watching above
Knowing what has been – what is to come.
Not a more beautiful place, for you and me to be apart,
Than the sprawling spacious gardens of my heart.

TOBY WILLATT & BEN WASHBURN (Aged 11)

A Secret Life

A magical garden can be found,
In a place under the ground.
Where fairies dance
Under pots and plants.
The pixies climb up the trees
To get away fro the horrible bees.
The statues moved
From time to time.
The spiders webs,
Glisten and shine.
But now at once,
The lights went out
The creatures sleep and the garden dies.

MRS FREDA CRAGGS

Letter from home

I hold the letter and close my eyes
Feel the movement of cool air on my face
Think of bluebells and soft woody smells
Wild garlic, damp earth,
The lingering odour of foxes
I am transported

I breathe the sweet breath of grazing cattle
Hear distant calls of children playing
Feel a spattering of cold spring rain
The warmth of the sun
Imagine rainbows in blue/ grey skies
I am transported

PETER EVERALL

Kitchen Garden 007

Painted Ladies languished on the cane
In that cold summer. Lashed by wind and rain
Faltering flowers bewitched the hungry bees
And brought forth seed spite weather’s maledictions.

Thus glad was he who often walked that way,
Yet puzzled that they gathered not the crop,
Until one Autumn day beneath the tiles
Three illustrative dishes showed their spoils.

Within dish one the brazen, ripened pods,
In two, pods opened and the seed within.
And trencher three:- the liberated beans
Dappled and ripened in the wintry sun!

Dreams he may walk within those walls again
And see their scions wave above the cane.

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