Competition entries
Over the hot, hot summer of 2022, The Poetry Café Eastbourne ran a poetry competition to link with National Poetry Day's theme of 'Environment'.
Find all our entries in the over 18 age range on this page.
The three winning entries have been labelled and have links to their performances below. Enjoy!
​
Over 18s winning entries:
​
Jackie Hutchinson: The Empress of watering places
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PA5LPSpXaNc&list=PLa96YOFOTapIYvxwvrRiFuV3E6eSrIr-j&index=3
​
Darren Rogers: A Sleep walking Lighthouse
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h3m_kjLX1rE&list=PLa96YOFOTapIYvxwvrRiFuV3E6eSrIr-j&index=2
​
Peter Watham: Epitaph on a Skylark
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K4BZT7pgjIg&list=PLa96YOFOTapIYvxwvrRiFuV3E6eSrIr-j&index=4
By Nathalie Wilson.
It's urgent
Don't you see,
It's urgent!
Please stop eating fish!
There are no more fishes in the sea.
Depleted oceans.
Trawled, emptied, killed, abused.
Dolphins, sharks trapped in fishing nets.
It's urgent.
Don't you see,
It's urgent!
I need to feed my family,
to earn a living,
I am the breadwinner.
Early mornings,
relentlessly going out to sea,
in all weathers.
What else can I do,
this is my trade.
Don't tell me to stop fishing
with your angry words in my face,
You don't understand,
It's urgent!
By Ilze Millere
​
In The Sea
​
the winds laughed as they dashed through the streets
till we reached the sea
and there,
a scene of absolute, divine tranquillity
orange blossoms spilled across the skies
a distant lightning teased us with his strikes
as we ran, hand in hand, in waves
sea licked our lips and took us in her warm embrace
we danced in the storm, clothes wet and hearts bursting in laughs
we felt invincible
alive
like ones with goddesses and gods
oblivious to strangers’ eyes afar
focussed on the raindrops tap-dancing on pebbles instead
in love with summer
reborn again
By Nathalie Wilson
Thank you
Early morning.
Floating on your calm surface,
swimming in your blueness
I am nurtured and healed by your power.
Thank you.
Walking along the promenade.
The remnants of a hot day
strewn along the ground,
by the hungry seagulls.
You are here with your refuse bags,
your bright jacket, picking it all up.
'We'll get through it' you say.
Thank you.
On the beach,
the remains of a barbeque.
Beer bottles, paper wrappers, charcoal.
A sea dipper on her way back from an early swim
picks up the bottles calmly, methodically.
Not angry, just resolved, a habit now in the summer months.
So I pick up the plastic bottles too.
I think of the seal watching us swim some early mornings
with plastic in his stomach
and a crisp packet choking him.
He is not saying
Thank you.
So if you go for a dip in Eastbourne's beautfiful sea,
if you enjoy her nurturing power, her waves, her majestic vastness,
If you have a barbeque on her beach
Laughing and connecting in the sunshine,
Please take your rubbish home with you!
Thank you.
By Nathalie Wilson
Rolling and breaking
The wind
blowing
The clouds
rolling
White, immense, expansive
across the light blue sky.
The wind
blowing
The plastic bottle
rolling
Grey, empty, battered
across the pebbled beach.
The wind
blowing
My heart
breaking.
Tears falling, pain
across my face.
By Lucy Calcott
ONE DAY
One day the petals will stir
Scents will arise
Bulbs will push through the hardened earth.
There will be an emerald flourish
A rush of new growth,
Velvet shoots, fountains of new beginnings
Seeking out the sun’s embrace
And the harshness of Winter
Banished back into the darkness of a coldness folded in on itself.
Spring announces itself
As a quickening, a dazzling streaked red Dawn
A sudden gallop across the Downland
A weaving across the Weald,
Interwoven threads, oranges, yellows, blues and greens , an array of tulips, crocus and dancing daffodils
Following the courage
Of the first tiny snowdrops
Challenging the dark,
Their bowed tender heads
Full of hope for something kinder,
Some gentle beauty,
White and piercing,
Some end to this needless domination
This blindness, this lack of seeing,
A dawning understanding
Of our true belonging,
Our place amongst nature,
Our deep depending on this beautiful earth.
By Lucy Calcott
​
LIKE A RAINBOW, HAMPDEN PARK FLOWERS
LIVELY leaves,
The colour of armour, metallic, khaki.
Pale leaves embracing a pastel green
Representing calm.
Red leaves soaked in balm.
A warning sign !
Deep oranges, salmon pinks
Plummy beach.
Clusters of pale yellow daisies
Fleshy leaves that brighten my day.
Rabbits ears dipped in icing sugar
Like candlebras.
Mauve and purple spikes.
Rusty striped lilies marked like tigers.
Spiky grasses erupt like a volcano
Like mount Etna
Frothing ochre.
A tumble of pink roses.
Black stalked daliahs,
Scarlet and apricot blooms.
Ladies mantle,
Frothing the smallest palest yellowest stars
Between an octopus of undergrowth .
Flower beds like a rainbow.
A shout of colour.
A place of dreams.
Peaceful, vibrant, blended.
Colours connected
But so individual.
A beautiful choir of different voices,
Sopranos, tenors, bass,
All singing, all flourishing, all necessary.
By Lucy Calcott.
SCENTED GARDEN
The smell of rosemary, mint, thyme.
I can taste a Sunday roast
Sweet and bitter, flowery and spice.
The smells of old gardens, abandoned rockeries, Greek canyons.
Spiky sea thistles and subtle leaves
Of bamboo
Tall enough for runner beans.
White orange blossom
On a shrub, fluffy and soft.
Menthol that smells of Winter colds.
Silver foliage and faded blues, Lavender purples.
On a hot day, soul soothing,
It makes me feel calm.
It makes me feel emotional,
I think of mum.
The garden is a soul space
A connection, a belonging.
A place to feel less alone.
A reminder of our interconnectedness.
By Kevin Scully
EASTBOURNE EARTHLINGS
A MESSAGE:
If we do not stop
the things that we all do now
then it will all stop.
By Darren Rogers
SEAGULL IN A POTHOLE
A seagull sits In torn up tarmac
Waiting for the rain,
To wash away confusion.
Around those screeching tyres
Deafened by Daimler, Benz and Otto.
To flinch, he forgot, long ago.
Hardened and immune,
To a changing landscape
Cliffs of chalk, disappear
Now chimney stacks, climbing high
Are the breeding ground.
Unnaturally.
Foxes sit with open mouths
Licking the air,
Saliva sluicing over tongues.
They pierce the air
With Banshee screams,
Arrows of frustration.
Mating rituals remain unchanged
Performed in peculiar places.
Perpendicular spikes,
To protect us from their
Overbearing parents.
Loving this warming weather
Gulls breed like rabbits,
Once of once a year
Now of eggs a-plenty.
Causing man made hatred.
As a population booms.
Umbrellas open
As a white rain falls
Toxic remains, dissolving
Any thoughts of forgiveness.
Holding a reflection…
We shoot ourselves
In our metaphoric feet
Limping to the sunset.
Before we move on to the pigeons.
By Darren Rogers
A Sleepwalking Lighthouse
White cliffs crumble
Pummelling the rising sea.
In pneumatic movement
A lighthouse sleepwalks
Fifty six footsteps inland.
A century after
She blinked in anger
Ice cliffs crumble.
The ocean’s drowning,
Raising the stakes.
As the roulette wheel
Of a changing climate
Is spinning.
Hoping to land net zero.
Wake up old Belle,
Soon will be the time to move.
The ledge is edging closer
Minute by hour by day.
Wake from your slumber
Make a wish and wonder
Will you blink once more
Or sleepwalk blindly
Into man made oblivion?
Leave a light on standby
We’re hopeful at least
Take the tape measure,
Stop the restless sleepwalks
And breathe in the view.
Winning
entry
By Felicity Goodson
80s Guardian
Ozone hole pierced my heart
As I stared at the stark front page.
I wept for the sunlight on my skin
And full colour of Earths rage.
Sunglass shades shielding cool cash blindness
Through the 80s to the 90s and now I'm 45
My son is my sunlight
But the seas still rise
As the caps melt down
Nobody is listening...
Well, the Earth goes round
While a mega jet rises
On the evening news
And the enviro-documentary
Is just an abuse
To our needs and must
That will lead us all to dust.
Just adjust
It’s a must
Or the dam will bust.
By Felicity Goodson
Four Swifts
They are here
Against blue sky
Cloud smudged
Wings like shadowed crescent moon
They sweep and screech their lines
We are here despite you
Two, only two
No intoxicating twelve revelling
Cole blue is my soul
But they are here!
Days scroll, look up, two more
So we have four
To ferment our mind
To demand Human kind rewind
Entwine in their sublime beauty of being.
By Felicity Goodson
Litter Follies
A fox lay deflated…. Dead
At the mouth of The Cuckmere
Confetti of our follies
Littered around it
Sole of shoe
Millions of butterfly blue and green rope from nets
Thin fishing line to strangle
Tangled in seaweed
Sanitary towels woven in
Red white and blue bottle tops
Flicked off
Fallen like our cares
Lollypop sticks
Drug fixes, plastic spade
As children wade through shallows
Of this hallowed but shadowed shore.
Baubles of dog poo on bushes, grass and bank
Yet, forms gather
Storming forth to clear
Encouraged by rage against the norm of apathy
A peaceful posy of litter pickers
Pluck and pull
Dutifully Covid distanced
In meditation
On Eco transformation
An imprint
On the horizon of mind.
By Noah Rutter
Bloody Vegan
get back in your box
she said
half joking
are you really vegan
not that bloody cult
my son told me
a presentation at school
alleged
being vegan
actually caused deforestation
non militant me
fairy shy
about that choice anyway
not wanting
to cause a fuss
or put people out
finds it strange
that
with all the evidence
with all the clear facts
well laid out stats
people blindly
heroically
support an industry
that has such a negative
environmental impact
if we all ate
and used
as little animal
products as possible
we would massively cut down
deforestation
and carbon damage
seems simple
and doable
not cultish
By Dan Shelton
Wish Tower Prayer
​
Peaceful presence
Concentration
Watchful eye
Bella Vista
Fleeting wisps
Constellations
Cirrus
Altocumulus
Blue sky
Dappled shade
Hush of the sea
Rustle of leaves
Thoughts peter out
Ebb and flow
Rock pools
Haze on the horizon
Shifting shingle
Chatter of gulls
Murmur of play
Hope for tomorrow
Summer’s day
By Jackie Hutchinson
Pevensey Flash Flood
Everyone is talking about the rain
about slush tyres, squirming over hidden tracks
about the pain
Buckets and buckets paddling and pooling at corners
thrashing at pavements.
No one has taught us about the return of the rains
along the rain blue miles of sunset sucking at shoes
about the trains stopped
spooling and drooling over iron tracks.
It pours into our holidays, our houses, our rentals
after another cold jug of sunlight
the pool dances with it, sandbags sink
as the council counts the cost benefits of flood control.
Out along the estuary, cool misted inlets ruddle back and forth
into towns, where drunk rivers straddle doorsteps.
And everybody has heard its refrain, melody of rivulets
clanging, dripping onto seed grain
The globe warms to its whispering campaign
chugging along the news, into resilient cities
through front doors until the small bodied
survivors wake up to realise
that nothing is the same.
By Jackie Hutchinson
The Empress of Watering Places
It is evening. Low tide at sunset.
we have traversed the streets
to the edge of our flat town, staring up at its beached head.
Asters petals unlace our eyes, planting strokes of luck
we drag our broken bottled lives across stone until the healing
sweeps in from the easterly sea.
Slowly our wounds are sealed with salt water
and London’s grit crumbles to chalk.
On wet alluvial days we scrabble the precipice,
holding the thin air to our lips, drowning sorrows in pink Thrift flowers
until our hearts bloom wide as daylight and fears are buried by nightfall.
In Terminus road, we dodge mobility scooters.
There are as many pubs as shades of varnish in nail bars,
a high street, peppered with identikit shops
mirroring other towns in other places.
We return to the cliffs, cracks and notches
of sea walls to pause at the spot where
Marx & Engels rested their eyes,
contemplating love, class, and revolutionaries.
We try to restore the wave cut platforms of the past,
before pebbles wore us down to sand.
You show me the abrasions where point blank waves
erase the rock face.
Vertical ocean – there is no return to yesterday’s landscape.
It is 100 seconds to midnight.
We decompress, we have shoes, fruit,
the sticky nature of Eastbourne’s September.
We have the view from the Lighthouse.
Winning
entry
By Jackie Hutchinson
The Green of Tomorrow
I lie down in the leaf mulched eye bright of summer cloaked in the wood’s treasure. The stamp guardians watch as I vault their village walls, land beneath orange Pekoe ribbons, like soft delicious, under trees.
I press deeper. The ground beginning to resist. Another globule, another crust. I can hear their footsteps and their barks. Then it fades, faster than flags and horses thundering away into the dark.
They are gathering at the post office, their ties are tight as rage, emboldened by the old days. I consider rising, rising above it all, but the mantle calls. The deeper landscape is a new cult, fresh with high demand and peer shaped.
I want to bring the leaves with me, they have been here since childhood, pock marking school grounds, autumns and pavements, but they are brittle as lithosphere, fragile as the planet’s plates.
There is pleasure in the mantle, and also death. Layer after layer of the earth is Russian doll.
The villagers have lost their steam, a newcomer has startled them. Instead of returning, I go deeper, towards a taut space, corrugated with graphite, a vacuum with all the fayre sucked out.
There is quiet, a restive silence which can only be heard through breath. Even the sun cannot penetrate. A rare lilac stone carved from meaningful material is carbonated, hard as granite. It seizes the environment, all at once, and in all directions.
By Debbie Milner
Litter Home!
When you go for a walk,
Sit to eat and talk…
Don’t forget the nature around,
Will see your rubbish in that mound,
And it will make them very ill
All that plastic that you spill!
The Wealden Wombles, must come -
To pick your litter as they hum…
Please take it home,
and clear up as you go!
By Debbie Milner
A Walk In East Dean
As I walked into East Dean,
A place I have often been,
I came across a tree-lined road,
Low and behold,
Under the craggy branch
a lady had taken a chance and
brought ‘Poems To Please’,
She was laughing in the breeze.
The pretty church and village square
make you eager to go there.
Outstretched quaint gardens share
the beauty of trees everywhere.
Where neat border edges
drift to lofty hedges,
Nearby the South Downs Way
with rolling fields full of hay,
takes you into a place you want to stay.
By Debbie Milner
I sing to Autumn.
There is no one that likes to,
sing like me,
As I sit below the apple trees.
Russet fruit falls and rolls,
down to a golden twisting haystack floor.
A tiny field mouse,
scurries under damp straw.
Swallow and skylark flies way up high,
into rich skies of blue.
Autumn leaves fly by.
I push and crunch, crackle in my country seat,
Dark red berries all around in the hedgerows.
Where under spines of prickly gorse,
Wildlife hides away.
The cobwebs of white dew form around a stile,
As I step into the South Downs,
my mind body and soul expand to the sea.
I cry out ‘I love you Autumn’.
By Peter Wathen
APOCALYPSE (not) NOW!
(A poem of when Eastbourne was enveloped in a strange yellow mist,
a chemical haze that hospitalized some with respiratory problems in 2017.
A bright red sun has turned skies yellow –
Does anyone hear the Horsemen ride?
Late August in a vale of shadow –
or a veil on a face with something to hide?
Have the Russians done something underhand?
Does anyone know what made them so ill?
Who poisons our air, devil or man?
Who saw Revelation ride down the hill?
One expects to see an apocalyptic prophet
peddling his sandwich-board doom,
and peasants abandoning plough and loom
crying “Repent, repent! The end is nigh!”
But now hear the modern ones sigh:
‘Actually, it’s only Saharan sand
and Portugese fires that shade our land
and make sepia soup of our Sussex sky.’
By Japonica (Sylvie) Dudley
Environmental Catastrophe
(A lightweight ditty with slang…)
Because of lockdown, because of Covid
You’ll never guess what they gone and did?
They locked the toilets on park and prom
To my mind that was blummin’ wrong!
People out walking had to judge
How many more footsteps feet could trudge
Before their aching bladders burst
We tend to forget, but it was the worst
Everyone searchin’ for ruddy’ ages
Looking for privacy in strange places.
Well I'm not being sentimental
But to me it’s environmental
Pee in plastic bottles, even worse in tissues
Stinking, unhygienic, just disgusting issues.
So if there is a next time, and let’s all hope there’s not-
Let’s pray for open toilets, and pray for quite a lot!
By Danielle Cobb
I Love The World
I Love the e the world we're living in It's full of awesome sights,
Mountains high and rivers deep, Warm days and starry nights.
We were truly blessed to be Given this wondrous place
To live,to love, to laugh in No matter creed or race.
So why are there so many Who want to ruin it,
By taking all the goodness And turning it to shit?
Why do we bleed our planet dry By depleting its resources?
Why can't we see it will not last If we keep on these courses?
We need to make some changes To keep our world alive
We must take responsibility If we want our kids to thrive.
I love the world we live in I hope you love it too?
So let's all work together And try to make it through.
By Danielle Cobb
The Girl with the Rainbow Whistle
The girl with the rainbow whistle Went to a protest today
She wanted to go and make some noise She wanted to have her say!
She wanted to shout her protest At the state her country is in, She wanted to tell the Tories
That they all should get in the bin!
She shouted for climate justice, She shouted against deportation, She shouted for taxing the rich, She shouted for saving her nation!
But what does she see in the news today She sees they think she's the trouble!
She sees the blinkered view they have She sees that they live in a bubble!
Oh why can't they see that she whistles Because she wants a fair future for all? Ah well, she'll just carry on shouting!
Will you join her next time? It's your call!
By Jeff Gallagher
28
Shopping In Eastbourne
The soiled palms and feet of unknown martyrs echo
through these familiar stations: we lift the fruits of their sacrifice into our empty trolleys.
All of this was once alive,
its shoots, cells, blood and sinews reaching for the light, as if to reward the gods with a vision
of what they had created.
Now we purchase muscle and stem, cleansed of the grit
and fat in which life’s raw seeds could bud and blossom, blithely stealing the expected offering.
Food of the gods no longer shared dutifully with the heavens, the gathering of our bounty
is a lifting of fresh corpses from cut price catacombs.
In temples devoted to plenty, the oracle speaks, promising
good health, long life, prosperity - we eat the fruit of winter;
cheap manna descends from clouds.
We sing from recipe books
and show our gratitude with burps: we graze hungrily, and the remains of our communion are returned
to the soil in plastic bags.
We become our own demigods, drunk and lounging in excess, statues wrapped in cling film, questing pilgrims sailing on
a fatberg in search of crisps.
By Stephen Holloway
Coastal Bluff
Frozen laughter
Slices through salt edged air;
Squeals of delight echo incongruously,
Weaving amongst deserted chalets.
An ageless orange skyline
Remains subdued as disfigured
Sunshine splinters along
Promenades carpeted with silvery hoar.
Stained faces
Stare seawards, breathing with the tide
And isolated shores confront a
Grey, foaming aggressor:
Seemingly unannounced.
A local with a walking stick:
Standing, sideways,
Huddled beside an arcade,
With a lady who smokes
And a dog that shivers:
The rock emporium is up for sale.
Daylight suffers as a blanket of
Gloom shrouds each stranded folly;
Deep, mournful, marble shadows
Accumulate:
A lone tug-boat exhales.
Songs of summer evaporate
Into a clear, star speckled night.
Pier: Victorian, ailing, paint peeling
Lists just a little more,
Groaning amid the waves.
The Punch and Judy man
Stands alone on the beach:
In silhouette;
With wet feet;
Waiting.
Elizabeth Jenks
Environmental Blues (Jan. 2012 – 2022)
I've got the environmental blues
I have it every day, for you
We live on a main road,
with traffic roaring by,
gridlock for the morning rush
and of course the school run too,
with audacious speed by Mums,
rushing in their four by fours
guzzling fuel and leaking grease
to deposit over our windows and cars.
It wasn't always like this
for years ago in '84
we used to sit in our front gardens
facing the road and taking tea with
the ladies next door.
What peaceful bliss,
Now long gone, a young couple
with baby girl and boy
Father works on his phone
and drives a BMW
The other side there's a man
whose garden is a large wooden playpen
He's uprooted all the roses,
there's not a blade of grass
he doesn't love nature
and grimaces at birds and cats
thinks sea gulls are flying rats
My garden's a mini jungle
with trees of Sumac and Buddleia
and an overgrown clematis
festooned with creamy red
flowers hanging like ballerinas
skirts, all dancing.
Nature is a blessing
and a way forward
for us all to embrace
By Peter Wathen
​
EPITAPH ON A SKYLARK
The money’s come, the money’s gone,
It’s simply one of those things,
I have no interest in shares and bonds –
Just as long as the skylark sings.
Love evolves, sometimes dissolves
Like the melted gold of a ring,
Best not worry what the future holds –
Just as long as the skylark sings.
I can escape to these Downs while the will holds on,
Lie down and hear skylarks lost in the sun,
And feel with the earth and the sky I am one
Before man does his worst and the floods come…
Through murk and mire or light and fire,
Still, I live life to the full,
But when one bird’s voice is a heavenly choir
All the rest can be annulled.
And time goes slow and time has wings,
To be honest I no longer care,
Just as long as the exultant skylark sings –
But skylarks are becoming rare.
I can escape to these Downs for just for as long
As nature’s good-will can still be won,
Before we ourselves are consumed by the sun
And man does his worst and the floods come.
Winning
entry
By Peter Wathen
EASTBOURNE ENVIRONMENTAL
Who said Eastbourne is a most polluted Town?
WHO said. That’s what I said, “Who said?”
No! WHO said, an acronym when written down
For the World Health Organisation:
We’re subject to particulate pollution
Which can severely affect our respiration.
Third worst for PM 2.5s in the UK,
What? Really! Is that what WHO say?
Much of it comes from European industrialisation
From over the Channel and down from London
Pervading, invading, our clean, tourist-town reputation –
So, what can we do? Ask who? Ask WHO?
But what can they or any of us do?
As locals escape to the South Downs Way
And bemoan our environmental situation,
And it’s ok to say that we’re luckier than some
But when all’s said and done, just what can be done?
What can be done for every species lost,
For pollution’s cost, wild-weather, global warming,
All the ignored warnings of every town in our Nation?
Does our own ‘suntrap’ town figure in this equation?
“I don’t know, my dear…
Just as long as the tennis comes back every year.”
By Stephen Holloway
Ronnie Biggs on Eastbourne Pier
‘What’s your name mister?’ The young boy asked
​
‘Ronnie,’ the old man languidly replied
The facade slowly unmasked
And the reputation died.
By Ilze Millere
IN THE SEA
the winds laughed as they dashed through the streets
till we reached the sea
and there,
a scene of absolute, divine tranquillity
orange blossoms spilled across the skies
a distant lightning teased us with his strikes
as we ran, hand in hand, in waves
sea licked our lips and took us in her warm embrace
we danced in the storm, clothes wet and hearts bursting in laughs
we felt invincible
alive
like ones with goddesses and gods
oblivious to strangers’ eyes afar
focussed on the raindrops tap-dancing on pebbles instead
in love with summer
reborn again
By Mark Durbidge
​
EASTBOURNE - SUMMER-by-SEA
Ginger, grey and cream stone shingle
Adorn the beach at Eastbourne mingle
In gently lapping white foam tide
Pier legs disappear beneath and hide
Fish & chips evoke the seaside essence
Picnic benches spaced beyond the entrance
Seagulls swooping down for snacks
Scare groups of students with backpacks
Arcade huts along the decking
Slot machines for 10p betting
Plastic tubs for winning coins
The seafront scarred by wooden groynes
Mums whose push-chaired kiddies scream
Demanding sweets or flaked ice-cream
Beachfront bars serve beers and wines
Hotel facades from bygone times
Wet sand walks as the sea goes out
Exploring rockpools or splashing about
Locals strolling on the prom
From end to end it's 3 miles long
Sunning on the Wish Tower slope
Daytrippers faces full of hope
That soon one day they can return
But bring sun cream so's not to burn!
Devonshire Park lawn tennis courts
Plays host to top flight racquet sports
While old folk in striped deckchairs knap
Take the topless bus to Birling Gap
Keen am-drams in full voice
Perform a Shakespeare of their choice
In a secluded garden Italien
A hidden southcoast tranquil gem
The bandstand echo'd with rock classics
Serving drinks in eco-friendly plastics
Had to get there early for a seat
Or be prepared to shuffle feet
August skies bring Airbourne planes
Rattling Victorian windowpanes
Avoid the queues that head for home
Take in a show - at Congress, Park or Hippodrome
Carpet gardens, beach huts, still remain
See them on board the Dotto train
Time for tea where shall we go
The Grand, the Langham or Hydro?
Fine bracing air at Beachy Head
Atop the chalk cliffs lofty edge
East lies Hastings, headland clearly seen
And west the South Downs, majestic, serene
By Ilze Millere
SURREAL SUMMERTIME ROMANCE
bursting full moon blushes and turns pale to cover the sea in glowing satin
the town is buzzing with music and lively chatting
the air offers a refreshing breeze but it's warm enough for a dress and bare feet, my skin is awake with a tingling relief
i wish i was naked and free, my body aches to be quenched by the breath of this surreal and sweet dream, to connect and to feel
thoughts swim at a lazy pace, and words of all textures and tastes roll and fade like waves over pebbles as we glide through the night
hands intertwined, catching glimpses of smiles with the corner of our sparkling eyes,
before he steals the street from beneath my feet with a kiss and lifts me towards the stars
and i wish that forever this moment would last
so i open my arms and fill pockets in my heart with freckles, skies and dance
i forget about others around us, and i'm brought back to the ground by their shadows and footsteps
but wherever i look, they seem less heavy and dark, and it feels like we share the same secret
i exchange a smile with a stranger
and we hear the night whisper:
"you see,
when distracted by living to fullest and drowning in summertime romance...
life seems a little bit simpler"
By Ilze Millere
11th MARCH 2022
salt on my lips
freezing fingertips
as i gaze in awe
at this wild and messy serenity
waves thrown in the air with ferocity
frothy bubbles coat pebbles
and chase my feet
birds stitch and untangle shapes
in chaotic harmony
through deliciously blue skies
while a handful of golden clouds
hide the sun away
Under 18s Competition Entries
This year is the first year we have run a competition and we weren't sure whether we'd attract any under 18 year olds wanting to enter - but we're pleased that we did and we welcome them heartily. Below are all the entries, the three winning entries are labelled and links to videos of their performances are below. Enjoy!
​
Rose Oxley: Disrupted Future
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WIV4vd1jSc8&list=PLa96YOFOTapIYvxwvrRiFuV3E6eSrIr-j&index=7
​
Nathan Tutt: Look after Eastbourne
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J5qHWw3zkw0&list=PLa96YOFOTapIYvxwvrRiFuV3E6eSrIr-j&index=6
​
Erin Hateley: Memories of a Different Kind of Sun
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sZkqgPZe1xU&list=PLa96YOFOTapIYvxwvrRiFuV3E6eSrIr-j&index=5
By Rose Oxley
OUR TOWN
For over 100 years we have walked its shores and streets
its parks and landmarks shine in the sunlight of this town
fields of long grass
lakes of beautiful shimmering water and cliffs and hills of hard stone make the environment of our wonderful place we live
After a shining day here it descends to darkness as starlings
fly across the horizon and the clouds
turn pink from the fading light
and the hustle and bustle stand still
stiller than the stones around us.
Rose Oxley
DISRUPTED FUTURE
The future is crafted by the past but i think that the present is more frightening than either because my present is a wasteland
destruction and hate litter the land as we have stopped caring for our town
fire burns down walls as sadness
at the sight of our once beloved home burns down our souls
for inside we are more destroyed than the broken buildings
But i am talking from the future because
you, the past,
can craft the future and still save the environment.
By Rose Oxley
AFTER SO LONG
After so long looking after our historic town we grow weary
of keeping it as grand as it is
yet we love it so that we cannot abandon it
After so long living in our fantastical town we see the landscape as a friend
such a beloved friend we surely cannot leave alone
After so long we still do not understand
the secrets of what makes our town such a special place
yet we understand why we love it so.
4
Plastic in the Sea.
Plastic waste in the sea brings a tear to my eye
Oh, how the sea creatures cry
Always discarding without a thought
But we are educated and have been taught
Small changes can be made
So, let’s make a promise and create an environment
For all to survive
Where creatures of the sea – and you and me –
Flourish and thrive.
By Nathan Tutt
Look After Eastbourne
​
Look after Eastbourne,
Eastbourne is our home,
A home means love,
We have to love for our home.
Look out for the weather
It might turn us to bone
Cut down on diesel petrol and gas
Don’t chop down trees, this gives us air
And the animals will have nowhere
To live that is their home
Climate is here! We need to work together
Otherwise our home will be lost
Winning
entry
By Nathan Tutt
Live Your Life as you Can
Live your life as you can
You will not live forever.
Take care of yourself
You only have one life
You will not have a perfect life
But don’t think bad of yourself
You are equal to any other being
Our differences make us unique.
Live your life with no regrets
You are who you are
By Erin Hateley
Memories of a different kind of sun.
I crunch with my autumn feet,
after the leaves were fried
and left to rot
charred earth on the roadsides.
The air feels heavier -
it’s harder to remember
what it was like before
warmth turned to heat
Me, blanketed soft in
memory of a summer holiday
I was stood in the middle of the beach,
barefoot
staring at the cliffs of beachy head
thinking how glorious must it be
to be that close to the sun.
I didn’t think further than the
swish-swash of the shore.
I sat reassured
a cheeky wink of a glint
off the top dome of the pier,
I was there, right in the middle of it all,
sticky, sea salted,
the tide went out once it had come in
to say hello
and that was all there was.
Winning
entry