Green Poetry Reading at Harbour Festival
Written by Bill Heaney Tuesday, 03 August 2010
Here are the poems we read out:
The Garden, by Margaret Atwood
Who is it tends the Garden,
The Garden oh so green?
’Twas once the finest Garden
That ever has been seen.
And in it God’s dear Creatures
Did swim and fly and play;
But then came greedy Spoilers,
And killed them all away.
And all the Trees that flourished
And gave us wholesome fruit,
By waves of sand are buried,
Both leaf and branch and root.
And all the shining Water
Is turned to slime and mire,
And all the feathered Birds so bright
Have ceased their joyful choir.
Oh Garden, oh my Garden,
I’ll mourn forevermore
Until the Gardeners arise,
And you to Life restore.
That poem (or hymn as it has now been set to music) comes from The God’s Gardeners Oral Hymnbook, as featured in her latest book "The Year of the Flood". Atwood's creation, God's Gardener's, is a cult that marries science and religion, with preserving the environment and living sustainably the central belief.
The next poem was written by Green Party member Janet Thomas from London, who wrote this to the tune of Rafferty’s Motor Car:
Oh what’s to become of the motor car
It really is obscene.
The children can’t play cos it gets in the way
And it makes the air unclean.
The fields are turned to parking lots
And the roads are filled with tar
so the burning question of the day
is the fate of the motor car.
The following was written by our very own Julie Boston, in May 2008:
CHARLES BISHOP BATTLED ON, Bristol 1884
‘Who’s that walking through my woods?
Who’s that fishing in my stream?
Who’s that drinking from my well?
Who’s that trampling on my dream?’
‘Last month I bought St Anne’s Estate -
The woods, the ferry and the Well -
Put a lock on every gate
Trespassers can go to Hell.
How dear little Angelina dotes
On her piebald pony and pedigree goats.’
James Sinnott, the villain of this tale,
thought his plan couldn’t fail
if the ferryboat didn’t sail.
But Sinnott did not realise
That a Bishop was out to organise.
The Pilgrim Inn supplied a stage
Where locals could vent their rage
‘Nethan Bridge. That’s 3 more miles to work each day.
The ferry’s by far the quickest way’
said Charles Bishop in dismay.
But the Bishop of Bath and 4 JPs,
Bristol Footpath Preservation Society,
Were loathe to attract notoriety
And agreed to proceed. I quote
“in a manner as little offensive
And annoying to Mr Sinnott as possible
to remove the locks without delay
Asserting the public to a right of way.”
Sinnott felt better as he burnt their letter.
Alone his children had fun
roaming St Annes Woods till 91.
But Bishop battled on.
In 1887 he made a written complaint,
- a written complaint - the committee felt faint
but agreed to wait for a later date.
In 88 they broke the lock on Sinnott’s gate,
walking the path, fearful for their fate.
Sinnott replaced the lock.
Another shock.
Bishop bought a boat and set up a ferry -
the committee got a grip. Took a trip.
A week later Sinnott issued a writ - a legal battle.
That was it.
The committee had to look
In the British Museum and the Doomsday Book
for proof of use which took
time and money.
The trial ran for nearly a year.
100 witnesses had to swear, on oath,
that they had either, or both,
paid a half penny toll on the Ferry,
or drank water from the Holy Well.
March 1891. Bristol had won.
The Judge ruled that the ancient Right of Way
was open for ever and a day.
Sinnott lost and paid costs.
A hut for the ferry man was Bishop’s next quest
raising funds with zeal and zest.
Julie's poem was followed by The Peasant's Revolt, a poetry slam winner in 1999, written by Pete Brown:
Now I live in the country - and often spend my days
walking the footpaths, fields and bridleways
And I don't do any damage - or any form of harm
cos I loves the country - and has respect for a farm
I don't trample crops - and I always keep to the edge of fields
I'm really very careful - my feet do not affaect the farmer's yields
Through flocks of sheep - my tread is gentle and unhurried
The lambs don't seem to mind - and the ewes seems quite unworried
And I don't drop litter - and I always shut the gates
So there's one thing that makes me bitter - there's one thing I hates
And that one thing - that I can't stand
is a member of the Country Landowners' Association shouting
"Get off my land"
which (funnily enough) is what happened the other day
as I was taking a shortcut to the pub - down Ambridge way
I was just cutting across Lackey Hill
when I was assailed by the stentorian tones of Phil.
Now, he may sound quite sweet - on the radio, in the Archers, but, believe me
he's a real bastard - when he catches you
on what he considers to be his pastures.
"Just where do you think you're going" I hear him yell
He don't sound happy, I can tell.
"I'm just going for a pint at The Cat," I shout back
"Have you got a problem with that?"
"Yes," he says. "I think I do. I've had enough from people like you.
Now fuck off, off my land and out of my face."
"Listen," I says, "we've got a right to space
and just what gives you the right to claim this little bit of Borsetshire?
How can anyone own - what's always just been here?
This land was here long before you or I
so how come it's yours, not mine - tell me why?"
"Listen," he says, "don't come the wise guy with me -
this land's been in my family for most of written history.
We're even mentioned in the Domesday Book..."
"No, you listen," I says, "you look.
This land was here - long beofre history began
It is surely the inheritance of all of us - and not the property of any single man.
I mean - ain't you seen the prevailing trends
all over the world the colonisers are making amends
and giving back those stolen places
to their rightful owners - the indigenous races.
From the Maoris in New Zealand to the Indians in the US
the exploiter is having to apologise for his earlier excess.
And I think it's time us peasnats had an apology and you made reparation over
that little matter of the Acts of Enclosure.
For if ever shabby deeds were done
tham, matey, was the ones."
"Listen," he says, "my family has been around longer that that.
We came over with William the Conqueror and that's a fact."
"Huh," I said. "That adds a whole new dimension.
This here's a little bit of England - while you're a fucking Frenchman."
"Listen, he says, "my ancestors fought over this land
over hundreds and hundreds of years.
It's been nourished by my father's father's blood
and watered by my mother's mother's tears."
"Are you trying to say," I countered, "that you want a fight?
A triumph of violence. Surely that cannot be right.
But if that's what land ownership is really about, I say
then OK - we'll sort this out your way.
For although I disapprove of violence -
indeed I deplores it -
But if that's the way it goes," I say taking off my coat,
"I'll fight you for it."
For this next poem, again by Julie Boston, we donned purple and pink feather scarves, the colours of First Bus Company:
Rooty toot toot
Do you like our new suit?
We think it’s really cute -
purple, puce and puke
cos we’re First Group
Rooty toot toot
Commute, commute, commute
we don’t give a hoot
if we make you destitute
cos we’re First Group
Rooty toot toot
When drivers get the boot
we send a substitute
who doesn’t know the route
cos we’re First Group
Rooty toot toot
We pollute en route
and make you droop and goop
and long for Guadaloupe
cos we’re First Group
Rooty toot toot
We’ve trains and planes and loot
but send a bustitute
on a rocking rolling route
cos we’re First Group
Rooty toot toot
We’ve ended the route
at the Filwood Loop
where the birds used to swoop
cos we’re First Group
Rooty toot toot
Do you like our new suit?
The council thinks it’s cute
and gives us loadsa loot
cos we’re First Group
The next poem was written by Bristol school student Bethan Risby, aged 13, who happens to be Julie's granddaughter:
The buses in our town,
are such a let down,
They're always late,
such a high price rate,
Getting on a bus,
Is such a fuss,
In our town.
But travel 100 miles,
To see London’s style,
That’s a very different scene,
The bus fares are not nearly so mean,
Under 16`s don’t have to pay,
Young people just scan their cards today,
In their town.
That is the problem important to me,
It could be solved if the buses were free,
There would be less cars on the roads,
Because of bigger bus - loads.
There would be so much less traffic,
That we could get everywhere quick,
It’s better for the environment,
So let’s not stay silent,
For everyone's town.
The next poem was written by Poet Laureate Carol Ann Duffy ahead of the Copenhagen summit that was such a disaster. It was part of the Guardian's 10:10 campaign.
Virgil's Bees
Bless air's gift of sweetness, honey
from the bees, inspired by clover,
marigold, eucalyptus, thyme,
the hundred perfumes of the wind.
Bless the beekeeper
who chooses for her hives
a site near water, violet beds, no yew,
no echo. Let the light lilt, leak, green
or gold, pigment for queens,
and joy be inexplicable but there
in harmony of willowherb and stream,
of summer heat and breeze,
each bee's body
at its brilliant flower, lover-stunned,
strumming on fragrance, smitten.
For this,
let gardens grow, where beelines end,
sighing in roses, saffron blooms, buddleia;
where bees pray on their knees, sing, praise
in pear trees, plum trees; bees
are the batteries of orchards, gardens, guard them.
Now we return to Julie Boston's work and a poem that was presented as evidence at the public inquiry into the Avon Ring Road on 3rd November 1994. Julie was even cross-examined on it:
What;s that written in my diary
Avon Ring Road, Public Inquiry
Scheduled to speak at a quarter to four
Avon House North on the third floor.
Statutory objector. Even worse -
my submission is in verse.
Checked in. Inspected.
Labelled. Directed.
Electronic zoom... Inquiry Room.
Red faced, white haired MBE
slung his legal glance at me.
Inspector: Your name please
Protester: Rosa Trees
Inspector: Mrs or Miss
Protester: What's the relevance of this?
Inspector: Got to call you something. Will Ms do?
Protester: Yes. And this poem gives my point of view.
The law locks up the man or woman
who steals the goose from off the common
but leaves the great villain loose
who steals the common from off the goose.
The law demands that we atone
when we take things we do not own
but leaves the lords and ladies fine
who own things that are yours and mine.
The poor and wretched won't escape
if they conspire the law to break.
That will be so, while they endure
those who conspire to make the law.
The law locks up the man or woman
who steals the goose from off the common.
And geese will still a common lack
until they go and steal it back.
Protester: Under attack, Avon fought back.
Legal adviser:
That poem is very famous
and has no influence on us.
Surely Ms Trees can understand
we offer an alternative piece of land.
Inspector:
Is it famous? I've not heard it before
Can you tell me the name of the author?
Protester:
Anon sir. A prolific artist -
a Leveller, a Luddite or a Chartist.
Inspector:
Can you make sure there's a copy for me?
And thank you for coming to this inquiry.
The next poem is by Bristol Performance Poet Ian Sills:
Whitchurch Blues
Walking down to Whitchurch,
Sunshine on my face,
Heading south of the river,
To a much better place,
No money in my pocket,
No soles left on my shoes,
Got the “walking down to Whitchurch on a sunny day” blues.
Climbing up through Cotham,
Down St Michael’s Hill,
Starting to feel nervous,
Starting to feel ill,
As I cross the water,
I suffer an attack.
I get the strangest feeling that I won’t be coming back.
Walking down to Whitchurch dressed in my suit and shoes.
Got the “walking down to Whitchurch on a sunny day” blues.
I’m burning in Bedminster,
Toast in Totterdown,
Hot as hell in Hartcliffe
Cos I took the wrong way round.
Suffering from sunstroke
As I reach Whitchurch Lane
I swear whatever happens I won’t try this trip again.
Walking down to Whitchurch dressed in my suit and shoes.
Got the “walking down to Whitchurch on a sunny day” blues.
My clothes conspire to cook me
Like a microwave.
Hottest day of summer,
This is no way to behave.
Cutting through the parkland
In a hopeless search for shade,
Each tortured step reminds me of the big mistake I made.
Walking down to Whitchurch dressed in my suit and shoes.
Got the “walking down to Whitchurch on a sunny day” blues.
Walking down to Whitchurch,
Reddened, sweaty face,
In no kind of condition
To present my case.
The walk and heat I went through
All for a job to lose.
Got the “walking down to Whitchurch on a sunny day” blues.
Walking down to Whitchurch dressed in my suit and shoes.
Got those “walking six miles in the height of summer to an
unsuccessful interview” blues.
We rounded the readings off with a poem celebrating the Sunday service on the Severn Beach line, written by Gill Sheppard of Shirehampton in 2008.
When the city hustle-bustle
Has become an awful pain,
Take a trip out to the seaside
On our now augmented train,
The fishermen are on the shore
And casting out their lures,
For exhausted city dwellers
What could be a better cure
Than to walk along the estuary,
Breathing fresh sea-salted air;
And gifted with a calm and peace
We otherwise find rare.
The curlew and the cormorant
Have joined in the refrain;
There’s the far-off eerie hooting
Of the 14.06 train.
In May the scent of hawthorn
Still hangs heavy in the air;
Look for chicory in August –
It’s outside a fox’s lair.
Take a coffee break at Shirley’s,
And step back into the past,
Unlike Costa’s it won’t cost you
And the price leave you aghast.
If it wasn’t for the Beach Line
Most of this would be in vain;
So please all raise your glasses
And let’s hear it for THE TRAIN!
We had great fun reading the poems and I hope you've enjoyed reading them. If anyone would be interested in writing poetry, reading out their favourites or coming along to hear some Green-themed poetry read out by others, then drop a line to This e-mail address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it and we'll organise an evening.