WRITE BY THE SEA IN FOLKESTONE
To provide a safe, inclusive and constructive environment for local writers to share and discuss their work.
Hi everyone, I have been through the competitions and picked out the best ones for the group, good luck and let us all know if you enter so we can cheer you on from afar.
MAY
Stories
Plays
Poems
JUNE
Stories
Plays
Poems
Happy writing
We have pleasure in welcoming Setareh to our February author event, a local poet who has her first book out. We have something a bit different for this month as there will be a workshop towards Valentine Day, so if you want to create a poem to go in your card for tommorow then please do pop along. As usual the event is free, bring along a pen and paper and do please support the venue by buying a drink at the bar as food and drink will be available all evening.
See you on the 13th February at 6.30 pm
Dave is a local poet, singer, guitarist living in Folkestone, he has been writing his qquirky stories for the last twenty years and his output has increased as his work gets a wider audiance. Today it comprises, comedy peices, blues songs, tragedies and love storues as well as a more recent venture into story telling.
Dave is a regular at the various open mike nights on and around and is looking to reach a wider audiance, his first book is a collection of some of his work over the past twenty years and volume 2 is already in the early stages of preparation.
Things to make you think, are they songs or poems? You decide.
Ben Barton grew up on the Romney Marsh in Kent. His poems have been published widely in both the UK and USA. Nominated for the Canterbury Poet of the Year Award and the erbacce-prize, he works as a professional copy and travel writer.
Also a film artist, Ben’s film Stella Erratica was funded by the late David Bowie, and premiered at the Cannes Film Festival. He lives in Folkestone with his husband and son, beside the beautiful North Downs.
Books available from Amazon here.
Write By The Sea are hosting these storytimes on a Thursday from 1pm until 2.30pm every week. Please feel free to pop along and share your stories, poems, lymeric or even just bullet points about whatever the theme is. On the 10th of October, our theme is LOVE.
They also have some great things for sale so well worth popping in and having a browse at what they have.
I know I must accept that you are gone,
But I will look for you in rain and snow,
Where pilgrims trod through Black Boy Alley,
Up Castle Hill and Minor Canon Row.
I still sense your warm breath upon my cheek
In College Yard, The Vines and Blue Boar Lane;
Each whispered female voice renders me weak,
And shock of dark brown hair inflames the pain.
Thick Medway mud mocks my unavailing search
And careless castle pigeons torment me,
But La Providence provides brief release
And no shortage of shops for books and tea.
I pass where Estella taunted poor Pip,
As bat and ball collide on King’s School field,
Reminder of what I loved most till you
Bowled me over and my devotion sealed.
I turn up Boley Hill by Northgate arch
For sanctuary under cool Catalpa tree,
Spreading its graceful arms on holy ground,
I sit down and let my mind roam free.
For one perfect moment I see your face,
Hear your voice, smell your hair and taste your mouth,
But it’s all a foolish afternoon dream
In cathedral doorway in Keats’ warm South.
When I wake, to adjoining gardens I go
Where sun shines bright and birds sing oh so sweet;
Yellow roses wave in warm, gentle breeze,
But there’s no one beside me on “our” seat.
I know I must accept that you are gone,
But I will look for you in rain and snow,
Where pilgrims trod through Black Boy Alley,
Up Boley Hill and Minor Canon Row.
By Tony Quarrington on WordPress
No fey fairy tale figure this Folkestone maid
But mature, full-bodied, strong and wise
Rooted firmly on the East Cliff rocks
Staring intently out on Channel skies.
Some try to clothe her in pity, some in fun
Hats, bikinis, scarves, have all adorned her form
But she is perfect as she is – broad, naked, deep
Impervious to pounding waves and winter storm.
Her hair forever drenched from tidal spray
Slicked back and sweeping down along her spine
Her lusty feet replace the mermaid’s tail
Resist and spurn the bitter lapping brine.
To the dogs released from summer servitude
On Sunny Sands, she’s just another stone
Their ball might bounce upon from owner’s throw
Or where they can relieve themselves alone.
A bare six summers has she settled there
Yet it seems to have been so many more
As if she’d witnessed history’s changing tides
Declining fish trade and the road to war.
When packet steam trains trundled down the hill
Into the harbour station and France bound ships
When English Tommy first tasted foreign food
Snails, mussels, garlic, frites instead of chips.
I trudge across still slippery lower rocks
To reach the stone she’s made her coastal home
And sit at her feet to see what she might see
While thwarting tourists with their camera phones.
Could she be looking to France or Belgium’s shore?
But rather her gaze looks upwards to the sky
As if in thanks this piece of Heaven should be
Where Cornelia Parker chose that she should lie.
Oblivious to the sights and sounds around
The squawk of seagulls or wave smashed shores
Mindless of games that gleeful children play
Upon the drying beach when tide withdraws.
Unheeding of the dirt and noise of building sites
Coronation Parade and Harbour Arm are now
She sits serene, majestic ‘midst the rush
A friend and confidant to all that vow.
Margate may have its Turner, Blackpool its Tower
Brighton its i360, St Ive’s its Tate
But none sing of the sea like our Folkestone girl
Stately and brave at England’s coastal gate.
I rise from the rocks with wave washed, creaking knees
While hers are as fresh and smooth as first she came
Two hours have passed since I joined her on that rock
A better use of time I could never dare to claim.
Two ferries cross each other in Dover’s strait
As the sun slides down over a silvery sea
Over her shoulder through darkening clouds
The coast of France gleams and bids bonne nuit.
A fearless chick loiters with intent
By Bob’s whitewashed seafood stall,
Affecting to ignore the cartons of
Whelks and cockles and lobster tails
Dispensed a few short steps away,
But pouncing on any edible debris
Unwittingly or deliberately dropped
By thoughtless human passers-by.
By Pent’s red brick sluice gate
They luxuriate in a bracing shower
In muddy, minute puddles left behind
Bygone, at least for now, high water;
With half an eye in the direction
Of Chummy’s charitable staff who
Discard empty shells on stony ground.
Teetering on bare, oarless rowing boats,
Or perched on piles of greying wood
Wedged deep into the hardening mud,
They pass the interminable time
Till the small crafts stir and sway again
And the sun glints on the windblown water.
A fretful throng starts to assemble
At the end of sloping Rocksalt jetty,
Squabbling over the best viewing spot
To wait in line for the painfully slow
Incoming tide to reappear;
In the meantime, scavenging for scraps
On the Stade’s concrete harbour floor,
Disdainfully dropping bottle tops,
Dog ends and paper coffee cups.
Shrieks and cries rise in intensity
As the prodigal, once truant waves
Flood through Folkestone’s golden gate,
Between the now closed off East Head
And war-ravaged remnants of South Quay.
A frantic chick chases after its mother,
Letting out a constant stream of whistles,
Pleading for a morsel of fresh fish
Now washing over its grateful feet;
But the peevish parent pecks its bobbing head
And bids it bide its time a little longer.
By Tony Quarrington