For the fourth year in a row, the parish has had the privilege and pleasure of putting on the Farnham Poetry Competition as part of the Farnham Literary Festival, and the results were announced at an awards ceremony and open mic on Saturday, March 15th, at St Mark’s Church.
Poets as young as five and into their 90s took part, showing extraordinary creativity and talent as they tackled the subject of unity, something that is sorely lacking in the 21st century world, but which is surely an attribute of the one God, source of creativity, unity and love.
Poets Coral Rumble and Linda Daruvala were the judges of the 16s and under and over-16s categories respectively and had a tough job deciding on the winners. However, decisions had to be made and the results are below. Click on the links to read the poems.
One good foot – Richard Lister Shared Disbelief – Lucie Rhoades Rainbow – Cosmo Goldsmith ONE – Chandra McGowan Forty years on – Liz Kendall Sword Dance, Woodland Stage – Liz Kendall The twenty first century is not a friend of unity – Chris Hunter THREE YEARS ON – Kate Young
I have a mum her name is Jenna I have a dad his name is Leigh I have a brother his name is Kingsleigh And then there is me. That’s my family.
Unity “Means Humanity First” Naqasha Nawal Ali
Unity means we all stand tall, Together we rise, one and all. No matter where we’re from or who, Kindness and love will always come through.
Helping each other, hand in hand, Together we make a stronger land. When we share and care each day, Unity leads the peaceful way.
So let’s remember, it’s easy to see, Unity means humanity, you and me!
8-11s
First prize
Family Brings Us Together Max Heath
Your family loves you, always and forever Your family is the thing that brings you all together
We love a family reunion, we have one once a year We like to play in our cousins’ treehouse, while our daddies drink their beer
My mum reads cool books with me, I always laugh or cheer My mum makes me feel unique, I always want her near
I dream of being a writer, my dad’s my biggest fan I know he really believes in me, he always says I can
My sister says she has my back, we even talk in code She always reaches for my hand, when we cross the road
My Grandma tells me stories – about our family past I find them ever so interesting, they should be on a podcast
My Grandpa plays fun games with me, he always lets me win He sits there with a happy smile, drinking a glass of gin
My family loves me, always and forever My family is the thing that brings us all together.
Second prize
What it means to be together Alice Colombini de Mello and Penny Lockyer
Hand in hand we get through the day together we are better, we’re here to say Together we get lost but we are together so we will find our way. We share the moments, the smiles go on for miles and miles The tears drop down, together we help each other Together we conquer our fears, and become better peers.
Third prize
Me and You Imogen Clark
Me and you Are like daisies and buttercups We are friends, Just different clumps, I am like me You are like you But that’s OK Cause you’ll stay true! Me and you, are like pencils and pens, We do different things, But we’re still friends. I am like me You are like you But that’s OK Cause you’ll, stay, true!
Highly commended
When Peggy Wingham
When midnight runs cold, and petals grow old, we’ll all be in it together.
When tears sprint fast, you know it won’t be the last. However, civilians will pull you together.
When your diamonds rust, and you try to thrust, I will help you, whatever the weather.
So when the rain clouds burst, and you can’t remove the dagger. When the lightning strikes, one wound after the other. Remember one thing, that will stay true forever, together we’re strong, and we’re strong together.
Unity Najia Eshaal Ali
Together we stand, as one in faith, Helping each other, in love and grace. Unity is strength, as we all believe, In God’s mercy, we shall receive.
Hand in hand, we walk the way, Sharing peace, night and day. No matter the difference, we are one, In the light of God, our work is done.
Unity means love, support, and care, A bond so strong, beyond compare. In Islam, we’re a family so tight, United in faith, with hearts alight.
Unity Eesha Haque
UNITY. What more could you ask for A bond that lasts forevermore Like a flower we stick together Making sure our world doesn’t turn grey But now we have no peace left The petals of the flower have gone astray Fires, wars and bombs are destroying our unity Fighting for land – it’s all wrong To unite together we have to be a community So we must unite like we had promised long before Before our world comes large at war
UNITY. We have to save our world before it’s too late
12s-16s
First prize
But they still forget Evie Goode
Her fingers traced the grooves in the stone, Smoothing through every dip of every sorrow, of every tear, of every word ever said. Creased words spelled the name, carved by nothing more than a pick and stone:
ALBERT BAKER
Breath caught in her throat, he was but a boy; 20 years and remembered by whom? The ebb-and-flow of the wind caught in hair which flew through pale wind, Leaves danced like tiny ballerinas, graceful, painful, regretful. The darkened truth of joy shone vibrantly through a sun which was, in turn, shielded by a haze of remorse. Solitary droplets spun and spindled, Maybe he felt this too.
On another occasion, a youngster approached this block, this wall of sorrows, Grasping to the names which were never remembered – Reaching for those who never were reached:
ROBERT EDWARD BELL
Eyes glinting towards the figures which influenced this young mind, he was but young as well: 20 years and remembered by who? The deep thoughts here reflects but the depth, the tragedy of the sea in which he fell, Life slipping like the grubby fingers which slip down newly cleaned stone. Brushed away into the wind, another soul forgotten with the many, H.M.S “Queen Mary”
They would walk past his name every day; whether this was to work, school, pleasure Who was he? The boy was taken ill- died quite soon:
JACK DURRELL GREEN
Resting, under sun and moon. He cries for his mother, his father, his future. A future which waits, waits, waits and waits A future in which he will chase with broken limbs, That’s what war does: 18, not a man but a boy – not free. Just the governments play toy. “Thy will be done”
So you see, as her finger traces, through every nook, every cranny, every crack and crumble, As it dances, through butter soft wind, as they walk, Through the nights welcoming sins: You see them there, shell shocked, skinned, scared and rearranged, mutilated and poor, stripped of rights which didn’t quite feel there before. Watch their ghost eyes. Faces. Tears.
3 of a kind, 3 dead in millions, not forgotten in words. A war to end, but still cause more.
Second prize
Stars Andrea Domingo
An upbringing of stars, like ochre pearls, Above you is familiar. The motionless, gangling night Follows you, like an inky shadow. The same sky entices you to sleep, Even in an unfamiliar town, Even throughout an unknown city you’ll never see, Outstretching across the Earth.
Third prize
Timeless Duality Emily Peters
Tell me dreams of starlight Of hell and raging fire Tell me your love, your hopes, your wants Come show me your desire Run deep beneath the boughs with me Trip and fall on rocks We’ll look at clouds and sing to them About tears, your blood, your shock Let the sea become our medic As the crimson stops its run Push and drown us in its body As its always done Then surface, as we breath The sweetness of the air Wind will shove us upwards It’ll ruin and pull at our hair But we’re hand in hand in the forest And we’re breathless and smiling just because We both love these sides of nature We both love that it’s just like us.
Highly commended
Together Jessica Jones
Together One brick is not a wall But many bricks form a strong, sturdy wall. One lion, no matter how strong Cannot be a pride But many lions is a pride with a mighty stride.
Streams join to form rivers, Rivers join to make oceans. Just as people join to make friendships, Friendships grow to make lifelong bonds.
Together we stand tall. Alone we stand small. There is no I in team, But there is an us in trust. Trust forms to make a shield, So do not let your shield rust.
Together we have a chance, To make a difference. Alone we do not make a dent. The thing we all must learn is, One pole cannot support a tent. Joined we have the best chance, To be the change we want to see.
Together, Standing in unity.
Unity Poem George Lovelock
Once we stood as a whole together, Thinking powerful bonds would last forever, In a few years time these bonds have shattered, We left the people who really mattered. Life as a wall, it got in the way, The friends we knew disappeared day by day, Now that we’re lonely, now that they’re gone, Should we have let go of these powerful bonds? Looking back on the memories of happier times, Ones shared with friends, now but thoughts in our minds, The people spent time with, the people who cared, These friendships we forged and the memories we shared. Remembering times, wishing we could go back, So we could see again, the friends we now lack, Our friends that were there but aren’t here anymore, The friends that we loved and still love evermore. What unifies us are the friends that we share, Our friends that stay with us, the people who care.
I emerge in a shimmering maze of shifting colours when sun and rain make play. I blaze I arch I curve like a bow I am full of contradictions I am taut-stringed with tensions yet tinged with tenderness. I uplift and exalt the heavens I bridge the chasms between sky and earth I am a promise fulfilled and shaped by a god who has softened from vengeful rage to a being of compassion, perhaps even regret, for his acts of severity.
I am the heart-chord earth-core sky-high gleam of hope that follows in the wake of destruction and slaughter, all my shades and tones of colour keep mingling and merging, sharpening and softening, suffusing across the spreading landscapes of people’s dreams. I am full of contradictions. I am bold and light-filled and ostentatious yet also transient and elusive for I can vanish and fade into the blurring veil of clouds in the flick of a moment like a magician’s disappearing trick.
I am the ship that carries the hopes of renewal for the young and idealistic, the eco-green warrior dreamers that sail the frozen seas and follow the whale roads and the creatures of the deep.
I am the flagbearer, the coat of many colours, the herald and the champion of those who feel different and isolated for I revel in the richness and strangeness of our neuro-diverse world.
The twenty first century is not a friend of unity Chris Hunter
The twenty first century is not a friend of unity. It wants you separated, identified and alone. You must buy stuff you don’t need and then buy more. You will contradict what you know to be true. You will value only the views of the celebrity. You will consume pornography within your cancel culture .
The twenty first century is not a friend of unity. It needs you silenced, compliant and afraid. You must watch only these news providers. You must deny climate change and fly frequently. You will fight over the last pack of toilet paper. You will be judged on your kitchen and latest phone.
The twenty first century is not a friend of unity. It needs you marginalised, impotent and without a voice. You must vote but the present course is set in stone. You can protest, but only here and between these hours. You will die but never speak of it before you do. You will judge the thief through a cocaine high.
The twenty first century is not a friend of unity. It needs you to hate, blame and die at its convenience. You can grow old but must not be a burden. You will believe the ignorant and ignore the science. You will blame the weak and uphold the rich. You will value life only in all that is consumed.
The twenty first century is not a friend of unity, But unity needs no such friends.
Forty years on Liz Kendall
She’s a goer, our Margaret; I want to be her when I grow up: announcing my eighties with sex appeal and sloe gin. Her younger man lives at a distance too far to just drop in; no such audacity – make an appointment!
I covet her striped skirt, flaring blush to wine to maroon to black grape. Peach scarf tied at her throat like a debutante.
Her vibrant ensembles the right side of taste, unlike her jokes, which are joyful and wild and true. She’ll say it, and make sure you hear, leaning in to catch your eye, claim your attention.
That is not my style, but perhaps I can practice; little by little, one wink at a time. If I start now and don’t give up drinking, or dancing, or sex, or bright colours; if I don’t lose interest in my changing self.
What springs of delight we are, we women; how our bliss bubbles up, percolating, getting better and richer with time. We know our own deliciousness; we have the first taste, then add cream, and a dash of our own hand-bottled booze.
Sword Dance, Woodland Stage Liz Kendall
Layered under tradition in heavy skirts: twenty-five yards of silk glorious and awkward, filling the well of the driver’s side, spilling to hug the gearstick and handbrake as made-up eyes startle themselves in the rearview mirror. Costumes are a rope bridge between fear and action and there are always loose threads.
Together, we step onstage and leave no sister behind until each pair of hands above their slowly rounding hips maya maya maya maya lowers one solid sword onto her solitary head. Feeling the weight which wants to fall just softly turning its curious flat-sided face: catching the leaves’ glances, reflecting them back to the trees, inviting light colours clouds; caught and cast. Our swords fill up with sky as we worship below them. As we hope for grace.
Smile: it’s a prayer. Smile as the smooth snaky arms undulations. Smile as the sharp level drop hip rotations. Smile chest circles crests rolls like a wave past the soft belly skin to the coin-heavy belt. Ocean-travelled silk worn before torn before reborn: hot colours stitched with gold. We hold each other tight with our will and our bare feet following. We will not let a sister or one single bright sword fall.
We celebrate with sugar and with laughter, picking out a patch of grass; shaded, but not yet damp.
One good foot Richard Lister
Most residents sit disconnected as I wheel Mum towards the garden, others watch TV on Volume 10 and only Dave’s room spills chatter.
A photo shows him in the amber of a cycling team, still wiry fit at 60. Ten years later and his right arm and leg are listless, face half crumpled.
His words fumble so I lean close. They were born last week, three budgie chicks tumbled in down, painted adults sing nearby.
Three weeks later, when Mum is dying, I just discern How is your mother? and see his cobalt eyes are moist. Dave squeezes my arm.
He moves his wheelchair slowly but when Douglas, who’s 102, needs help, Dave pushes them both with his one good foot.
ONE Chandra McGowan
Together here safe Swim with love against the tide Touching the heart space
Shared Disbelief Lucie Rhoades
I don’t think I can do this anymore as my body convulses and contorts and contracts, and I let out what can only be described as a primal roar.
I know this is in my design but I don’t know what to do, I can’t find the strength, I’m exhausted. I keep thinking I’ll get there, I’ll pull through.
But, at this moment, I’m not sure how. I’m trying to move with the ripples of hurt but deep below I hold such self-doubt.
I think of those who have come before me on this path, the friends, my sister, my mother, and I wonder if I have that resilience too to last.
Somehow I find myself grasping a connective energy that joins us all, one that pulses through motherhood and catches us when we stumble, when we fall.
I come back to my breath and the room that I’m in. Inhale, exhale, let the power of pain flow. I can’t wait to meet you, now, let’s begin.
THREE YEARS ON Kate Young
The sky split wide with sound at dawn, The twenty-fourth of February – The land scarred swiftly as bombs fell.
It’s been three years since war began, Already many foreigners forget – But Ukrainians will not.
Millions of Ukrainians uprooted, Thousands of civilians killed or injured, Nearly seven hundred children dead.
Ukraine has lost swathes of land In south-eastern regions, Many simply fled their homes.
Displaced Ukrainians carve New lives in European countries, Or elsewhere in the motherland.
The Russians may take our homes, But they will never take our souls, We stand together in unity.
We stand for justice and freedom, We stand for hope, and the right To simply be Ukrainian.
Old Thomas treads carefully, senses the land with his toes. His eyes are set with white.
He’s swathed in the crimson cloak of the Samburu tribe. Once a warrior, now he holds my hand. I feel the warmth of a culture unafraid of touch. We pray
and our worlds are briefly one, the words of brothers whispered to our King. We talk of last year’s drought that turned his goats from flesh and milk to bone and dust.
Such droughts were once in an elder’s life, then every twenty years, then ten and five.
Have we caused this? Is God punishing us for fighting with the Rendille? We cut down the mwangati cedars for charcoal, to cook. They can no longer trap the clouds.
Old Thomas will never see the buzzing neon of Beijing or muffle himself against the aircon-ice of Miami’s massive airport. He will never travel in a plane, sleek with light. What kind of brother am I if I am part of this?
Old Thomas waves me into his hut: a dome of arched sticks and stretched food bags with English words in UN blue.
My eyes stream from the smoke in the dark. We drink sharp tea till I need to leave. He spits a blessing on my hand.
Second prize
‘direction of travel’ Kate Kennington Steer
foxed and dog-eared, the map got torn quite some time ago, wind ripped from cold hands, blown outside in, centre fraying from fold after refold, text blurring deep down under mud smears and tea stains, outdated details litter its surface, green turned grey, count the loss of public houses, count them, count too those country churches now des-res fixtures,
count them
for what has gone is much more than a mark, something infinitely more precious than the ubiquitous PH, or a cross
for what we need to notice and to grieve are the places where we sang together, where we sat silent together, where we roared on our teams, snatched a lunchtime mindful moment in passing, sneaked in for an after-work pint, there where we enacted our rituals and all done as more than one
a collective breathing in and out, a commingling of air, our times set apart, time out of time now, and we still don’t understand what we’ve lost,
the simple exchange where neighbours’ hands met to share peace, where ‘we believe’ was true, where a nod to a regular meant home as much as welcome, marked time as well as place.
do we really expect our coffee shops to provide a replacement
for such devotion, such mutual service? where else do we now meet, week in and week out, and greet those like and unlike us? how far will we travel to find out?
I have a map we might use, let me share it…
Third Prize
New Atlantis Liam Smith
It starts with the chokings
With snappers snared in six-pack rings As broken tanks bleed rainbow spills That turn the seas to darkness. The sharp taste Of hydrocarbons, clogging gills and lungs As another miracle creature gasps In the grasp of a polythene noose. This is truth:
A whale calf, poisoned by the milk of its mother’s Pollution-tainted breast, lifeless body still clutched to that Wretched parent’s chest. Forests of corals, bleached Of colour, turning reefs to crypts. Think:
If once the merfolk built their kingdoms Beneath these once-clear waters Nothing of that tragic Atlantis remains. Each silenced siren buried in a plastic casket Beneath corrupted waves. And in its place:
A citadel of waste. An island that lurks Beneath the Pacific surf, a thousand miles In girth, a curdled horror of nurdles and polymers, Cast-off casualties of planned obsolescence That oozes chemical venom into the very water That supports it. Our sad Atlantis:
Scrap capital of the world ocean. Are we Not water? Blood and salt, veins and Waterways, current and pulse. One world, One body. More than any one could muster The strength to alter. And yet – one community, One cause. A call to form a blue world order and to build
A New Atlantis.
Written in response to artist Julia Ann Field’s painting Choke.
We are entering a busy, hopefully warmer, time of year in the church calendar. This month, Lent begins and with that our preparations for Easter. Many of us use this time to reflect on our relationship with our loving God and seek to draw nearer to God through prayer, meditation and study. Joining a Lent group can help with this and there are several in the parish – see inside the magazine for further details.
Inside you will also find news and details of events such as the Farnham Poetry Competition Awards Evening and Open Mic, Draw Farnham at St Mark’s, our Easter Craft Market and Easter egg hunt, Top 10 Hymns/Worship Songs and much more.
Please do have a look inside, and don’t forget our advertisers. Check them out and if you use them, don’t forget to tell them where you saw their advert. They help us by placing their ads with us so we want to help them.
Calling all poets – beginners, experts and those who dabble from time to time. Get writing because the Farnham Poetry Competition is back again.
The competition, now in its fifth year (we started with a lockdown poetry competition in 2020), is run by the parish as part of the Farnham Literary Festival which takes place from March 6-16.
The 2025 poetry competition has the theme of Unity/Being Together and entrants are asked to write a poem about what unites people or what they wish would unite people, or what it means to be together.
There are four age categories this year: up to age seven, eights to 11s, 12s to16s, and over 16s. Poems should be sent to poetry@badshotleaandhale.org or to St Mark’s Church and Community Centre, Alma Lane, Farnham, GU9 0LT to arrive by 5pm on Monday, February 24. Please include your name separately from your entry and, if entering the 16 and younger categories, add your age to the bottom of your poem.
The children’s poetry competition is being judged by popular children’s poet and author Coral Rumble and the adult one by poet Linda Daruvala.
The competition is free to enter and there will be prizes for the first prize-winners and runners-up in all the categories. The winners will be announced at the poetry final evening on Saturday, March 15, at St Mark’s Church, Upper Hale, at 5pm, when there will also be an open mic for anyone to share their poetry, and the two judges will also perform their work.
Entries should include name, contact details and age if entering the 16 and under categories, but the name should not be written on the actual poem. There will be winners and runners-up in all categories and these will be announced at the awards ceremony and open mic on March 15.
Christmas is probably a distant memory for most of us, but Christmastide actually ends on February 2, which is known as Candlemas and is 40 days after Christmas Day. It’s also known as the Feast of the Presentation of Jesus Christ, when the baby Jesus was presented in the Temple. Traditionally that is the last date for having Christingle services which is why you will find the two parish ones advertised in this month’s magazine.
Alongside this in the magazine is an update on the vacancy, details on fundraising for the tower at St John’s,information on our poetry competition (part of the Farnham Literary Festival), news, events, prayer and, of course, our dedicated advertisers who keep us going. Please do consider using their services.
A massive thank you to all those who took part in the Farnham Literary Festival’s Poetry Competition which the parish organised on behalf of the festival.
We had an incredible 138 entries which came from Farnham and much further afield, as far, in fact, as Nepal! And around 100 people gathered at St Mark’s on March 11th to find out who had won and to hear poetry readings from the winners, runners-up and anyone else who wanted to read. We also heard from the two wonderful judges –Ellora Sutton who judged the adult poems, andCoral Rumble who did the same for the under-16s. Please read their work!
And the winners were…
Under-16
First prize The Robin by Margot Sidwell-Woods
Second prize Many Tongues, One Voice by Jet Pariera-Jenks
Third prize Hope by Thomas James
Highly commended Save Us by Daisy Brice Hope for Autism by Monty Monro Be Hopeful by Hannah Jakobek Hopeful Poem by Kobi Green Hope by Alice Howell I hope for a Dog by Lyra Buttery Hope by Jessica Mellor A Handful of Hope by Florence Champion Hope by Alina Liepsch Hope by Jaxson Wright
Adult
First prize Insomnia and Death of the Queen by Rodney Wood
Second prize Sift andScatter by Chris Hunter
Third prize There is a Light that Never Goes Out by Liz Usher
Highly commended Frensham by Victoria D’Cruz Sunday Lunch by Lorna Darcy Looking for Hope by Mel Cracknell Worship by Vicky Samara
And now for the poems:
Under-16s
First Prize The Robin by Margot Sidwell-Woods
The sky is dark Sluggishly grey We trudge along Through the ashen day And on this morning With its charcoal tint There’s a flutter of feathers A robin’s beak and wings Its eyes are bright And its breast is red It ruffles its feathers And tips back its head And melody pours out Splashing into the air High, sweet notes That don’t belong there But one day they could In a new clear sky And, like this bird, I could learn to fly I turn to stare At the red over its heart And my mouth twitches It’s a smile Small – but it’s a start
Second Prize Many Tongues, One Voice by Jet Pariera-Jenks
The National History Museum has opened its doors And children are scouting the corridors Gazing at evolution’s historic trail From fierce dinosaurs to slow sea snails Fascinated by ancient fossils and bones And marvelling at geodes captured in stone.
But the scene that draws everyone’s eyes Swims above them as if the seas filled the skies The skeleton of a blue whale hangs in the air And all the children stand and stare They crane their necks to the ceiling to see This oceanic creature of nature’s beauty.
They point and gape at her white bleached bones In their hands lie forgotten their cameras and phones One boy turns to another and grins “Isn’t Dóchas the whale a beautiful thing!” His Irish accent is thick and his companion frowns “This whale is called Haffnung, she swims where we’d drown.”
A Spanish girl interrupts the German’s words “No! She’s Esperanza, it’s wrong what you’ve heard.” More children are adding names to the fray “She’s Von!” “Tanna!” “Tumanako!” Everyone wants a say Children start quarrelling, a fight breaks out The once peaceful museum echoes with screams and shouts.
They argue about the whale’s name Kicking and punching without decency or shame Until an old man holds up his hands for quiet “Children, there is no need for this angry riot!” The museum echoes with the hush All the youngsters look away and blush.
“You’re all right, the whale is called Dóchas, Hoffnung, Von and Esperanzas Because all of these words are one and the same They all mean hope, and Hope is this whale’s name She hopes that her sisters are safe in the sea And that we stop hunting her kin so needlessly.”
Hope is important in all walks of life We should unite our voices to keep it alive Instead of quarrelling when none of us are wrong We should spread the message through poems, laughter and song Through war ridden countries and earthquake-shaken ground Let’s join hands in hope, let the beauty resound.
After Jalaluddin Rumi, 16th century Sufi mystic
Third prize Hope by Thomas James
Hope.. it is in all of us; in soldiers during wars in doctors when performing operations in all of our friends and families … in you
Sometimes it is hard to find sometimes it is hidden in the depths sometimes we feel we lose it but remember it is always with you
Once you find hope all your goals will be within reach so there is no need to mope and that’s what I am trying to teach
Hope is in all of us In the strong and the brave In the weak and the shy In the happy and the sad Hope is in all of us
… and it is the most important thing….
Highly Commended
I Hope for a Dog by Lyra Buttery
I hope I get a dog, I’ll walk it every day, Even if it’s rainy, I’ll still go out to play. I’ll feed her in the morning and in the evening too, And when we go for walks she’ll do a great big poo! I hope she will be small, brown and fluffy, And I will brush her every day so she doesn’t get too scruffy. I hope she jumps on the bed at night. And sometimes gives me a terrible fright. I hope to call her Daisy And I’ll love her, even if she’s crazy.
A Handful of Hope by Florence Champion
Everyone Has a Handful of Hope Hidden in their pocket. It helps you think, helps you cope When you’re struggling.
Some say hope is red, Some say it’s yellow, Green, Blue. But who is actually telling the truth? Well everyone is correct, As hope is not just one thing, But many things, Many items, Many thoughts, Many communities brought together. That’s hope.
Hope doesn’t always work, Although it cheers you up on a gloomy day, Takes you away from things, Things that put obstacles in the way, Of achieving your dreams.
Yes, of achieving your dreams Those things called doubt and worry and fear, They line up on display, They try and pull down tears from your eyes – They make you afraid. But as I said, You can take all of those things away, If you have a handful of hope, Hidden in your pocket, As it helps you think, helps you cope, When you’re struggling.
Hope by Alina Liepsch
Hope is a special something We cannot live without. We can all have hope, And we should not doubt.
We hope things will get better, When everything goes wrong. Hope gives us what we need, It helps us to stay strong.
It keeps us going when we’re tired, And helps us when we fall. If we hope for what we already have, Then that’s not hope at all.
But hope for what we can’t yet see, Means patience, calm and waiting. When we have something to believe It makes a life worth living.
Hope by Jaxson Wright
In a world full of war Sadness and pain, When the winters are cold And pouring with rain, When people are hungry Homeless and poor Nowhere to sleep Except the dirty wet floor, The glimmer of hope That brightens the sky, That spring is coming The floors will get dry, The sound of laughter Will fill the warm air, I hope we are happy I hope that hopes there.
Hope by Jessica Mellor When there’s an ominous hole in the back of your mind, You feel like drowning, struggling to survive. When you think your incarcerated in your grave, Hope is only found from among the brave, The never-ending dissatisfaction that is suffocating within you, You’re entrapped in your mind, not knowing what to do. Everyone struggles from time to time, Not understanding life, thinking that’s a crime. But if you look into the distance, there’s a shining light, Part of your individuality can radiate so bright. Not knowing there’s a way out, A place to escape, Not seeing there’s a hope, It’s easy to lose your way. Tring to navigate a path, Just trying to stay alive, Just to keep breathing To get through the day and night. Even through the darkest of times, There are glimpses of hope, But sometimes not clear enough to see, For some it’s far too much to cope.
Hope for Autism By Monty Munro
A Person with autism is Underestimated Talking without emotion Inventive – thinking outside the box Struggles academically Tedious it feels Imaginative thinking Creative thoughts
Hopeful Poem by Kobi Green
Hope is a wonderful thing it surrounds everyone From the stars To the tiny, tiny bees The whole world is surrounded by it You just have to find it.
Be hopeful By Hannah Jakobek
Have faith in yourself. Open your mind. People need to have hope. Eventually it will work out. Free from pain. Uniquely you. Look for hope wherever you are. Live in the moment. You are amazing.
Hope By Alice Howell
I Hope for lots and lots of chocolate at Easter. I Hope the Easter Bunny comes. I Hope for candyfloss and cuddles. I Hope for lots of fun and family. I Hope for sunshine.
Save Us By Daisy Brice
Darkness, fear, hate, all of this is an empty void People waiting for it all to change gears for a brighter day. I sat under a range of leaves on a tree Thunder hit the three trees Leaves falling and crying. The world Dark falling, evil walks past us. But I hope the retrieval of the Greatness Hope with hope The sky bright with a little rain for the crops Icebergs safe Everything is alright Forests huge with something to prove But this could be through Unless we Dream incredible Dreams You can save us all You need to hope.
Adults
First Prize INSOMNIA AND DEATH OF THE QUEEN by Rodney Wood
At night, when all the colours die / they read about themselves in colour / with their eyelids shut Craig Raine, A Martian Sends A Postcard Home
My sleep routine starts after the news at 10.30. I flip through 119 TV channels which don’t feature actual programmes only clips of the Queen, Paddington Bear, marmalade sandwiches and adverts I’m not interested in.
After that I take umpteen supplements: lavender, valerian root, melatonin, magnesium, a glass of Dom Pérignon, listen to “Clair de Lune” by Debussy, have a warm shower, a light snack, write a to do list, put away my phone before the sleep cycle can begin.
Last night, 8 September 2022, for example, I shut my eyes to an empty screen before clips of the Queen, Paddington Bear, marmalade sandwiches and adverts I’m not interested in about paperless TV licences, buying
and selling cars, star sign based cuisine, bread, burgers, avocados, life insurance, slots, EuroMillions, swimwear, equity release, shirts, video poker, loans, beer, smoothies, mints, holidays in Greece, mobile telephones, roulette, perfume, coffee machines, Kane to score next,
sunscreen, boilers, hemp extracts, home delivery, hair colouring, online casino, racing, video bingo, chocolate, biscuits, cough drops, trains, credit, online sports betting, home insulation, insurance, hemp extracts, trainers, how to stop
gambling, gambling and more gambling, 5 minute party political broadcasts on behalf of All 4 Freedom, Charter, Family, Scotland – Unhyphenated, Climate, Rubbish, Church of the Militant Elvis, Count Binface, Motherworld and the other 337 political parties.
After that another clip of afternoon tea with the Queen, Paddington Bear, marmalade sandwiches and only then, the alarm goes. Another sleep interrupted but there’s always hope I’ll sleep before the next coronation.
Second Prize Sift and Scatter by Chris Hunter
I stood in that yellow, searing heat; a blasted amalgam of sift and scatter. A scape shaped of grief, shimmer, pine roots and shadows cast by cypress, as black as sump oil.
The unplanned end to a furnace thickened, crumpled stumble from gate to tree to stone.
In the autumnal chill of chain grey, that land remains neutral. Just yellowed grass and cold dirt. Now, instead, it is a sultry, soured, shifting molasses of emotion.
The moment draws me down to the ground. This strange gravity of everyone interred. Once strangers but now unified in soil, to clay, to sand.
The words of everyone who has passed, fusing and dividing for those who wish to hear it. The whispers of the next day, early light after loss, the quiet voice from another room. The unmercenary kiss to the brow. Dates forgotten. Emotion not.
Now this place gives back all that has been taken from those who lie here and those who got to walk away. It gives back each regret in one long breath of scoria-laden intent. It raises strange hope from former pain and leaves a message throughout the earth beneath my feet.
There in that dust blown sift and scatter. You have gone. You really have gone. Though you knew this place and we are both here, sharing that hope that you said once lost, would lose you.
Third Prize There is a light that never goes out By Liz Usher If Hope is a thing with feathers it fell down our chimney last night and came to its rest on a red-brick dust nest behind our gas flame-effect fire. We’ve not used the gas fire for ages – we daren’t turn it on for the cost… but hope springs eternal in appliance infernal, you can’t turn the pilot light off.
Highly commended
Frensham by Victoria D’Cruz
Small pebbles rock beneath our feet Cold wet toes curling The wind whips your lack of hair not flying now My thick locks knotting with fear We leave our clothes, laid neatly for our return We walk, uttering only smiles of encouragement.
I used to run straight in Embracing the cold shudder that hit my perter chest. Sending my heart racing, that weird feeling when I thought of you. Breath gasping Quickening the panic.
My Dad told me it’s not real sand and swans could break my arms.
Today together I edge in at the precipice. Swimming shoes hiding my unmanicured nails, tow-float spread around my middle age Little by little I stop, step until the tiny waves comes to me I move to them controlling my breath. In…. Hold…. Out… Drawing imaginary squares of air. Thighs Waist Boobs Shoulders The rush as a hopeful laugh slaps me in the face.
Sunday Lunch by Lorna Darcy
Whenever we have roast chicken For lunch on a Sunday And the carcass, Pale and broken open Sits steaming, Speared on the carving block Peeled carrots, Peas seething, Potatoes and parsnips burnished, He carefully frees the wishbone From the frame of the bird. Strips the malleable white flesh from the brittle bones. Holding up the delicate V, He wraps his little finger round one Tine And offers the other, Jagged as a tooth, To me.
I pinch it between thumb and forefinger To get a better grip Knowing with unbreakable, unshakeable certainty That when we pull apart, He will come away with the greater portion. Always the victor. The good futures wishbone Aloft like a ragged pennant In his finger. In all the times we have enacted This minute ritual I have never, ever won.
And yet, he offers it to me, and there is always hope.
Looking for Hope by Mel Cracknell
My son wore red The tense is past A clue, a statement, a feeling or reality? Mine His
The robin wakes at dawn stays until nightfall. How do I know? His song is his voice he tells the world here I am.
It’s February, the month of Valentine’s love, pancakes and the first signs of Spring. It’s also a month when lots starts happening in the parish – well, does it ever stop? But here we are coming into Lent, with Lent courses which this year focus on the TV series The Chosen, a Questioning Faith course which will lead to confirmation in the Cathedral on Easter Eve, Shrove Tuesday and Ash Wednesday, with services of ashing, and our Pancakes and Temptations service. Then there is a barn dance on February 25th, and an invitation to enter the Farnham Poetry Competition – this year the theme is hope.
Take a look inside the magazine for more details where you will also find a response to the bishops’ proposals on equal marriage, the Church Cat, prayer, thoughts on faith, events and reports from local groups.
The Farnham Poetry Competition 2023 has now opened and this year the theme is hope.
There is a children’s competition, open to under-16s, and an adult one, and entrants are asked to write a poem on the theme of hope – what gives them hope, what hope is, where we might find it, anything about hope.
Poems should be sent by email to poetry@badshotleaandhale.org or by post to Farnham Poetry Competition, St Mark’s Church, Alma Lane, Farnham, GU9 0LT, to arrive by 5pm on Friday, February 24.
The competition is being run by the parish and is part of the Farnham Literary Festival which is being held across Farnham between March 3 and 12.
The children’s poetry competition is being judged by poet Coral Rumble and the adult one by poet Ellora Sutton. The competition is free to enter and there will be prizes for the first prize-winners and runners-up in both categories. The winners will be announced at the poetry final evening on Saturday, March 11, at St Mark’s Church at 5pm, when there will also be an open mic for anyone to share their poetry, and the two judges will also perform their work.
Stella Wiseman, who is organising the competition on behalf of the Literary Festival, said: “We are living through extraordinarily difficult times at the moment and sometimes we can feel pretty hopeless. But there is hope around us and within us and this competition is an opportunity to explore where we might find it, what gives us hope, how we share that hope, really anything about hope.
“Last year, the poetry competition really showed the breadth of talent, ideas and sheer joy to be found in people and their writing and we really hope that this year will be the same. Please do have a go, and just enjoy yourselves writing.
“And once again we are delighted to have Coral Rumble and Ellora Sutton on board to judge the competition. They are both inspiring poets and we are honoured that they are taking part.”
Coral Rumble (left) and Ellora Sutton
Ellora Sutton is a Hampshire-based poet and museum person. She is the Creative Engagement Officer at Jane Austen’s House, and has been the Poet-in-Residence at both Jane Austen’s House and Petersfield Museum. Her work has been published inThe Poetry Review, The North,bath magg, and Popshot, among others, and she reviews poetry for Mslexia. Her latest pamphlet, Antonyms for Burial, was published in 2022 by Fourteen Poems and is the Poetry Book Society‘s Spring 2023 Pamphlet Choice. She tweets @ellora_sutton, or you can find her at ellorasutton.com
Coral Rumble is a popular, award-winning poet, with five poetry collections, plus 170+ anthology contributions. The Adventures of the Owl and the Pussycat (picture book) was longlisted for Oscar’s Book Prize Award.
Coral won the Caterpillar Poetry Prize, 2018. Her collections have been promoted by education magazines and shortlisted for awards. Her verse novel, LittleLight (2021) was a recommendation for National Poetry Day 2021, and was a chosen text for Empathy Day 2022. It has also been longlisted for the UKLA Book Awards 2023. Her debut novel, Jakub’s Otter will be published in 2023.
Entrants should state whether they are entering the adult or under-16 category. Adults with particular educational needs may enter the under-16s category (call 07842761919 or email for further information).
The judges’ decisions are final and no correspondence will be entered into.
Serving the Villages North of Farnham: Badshot Lea, Hale, Heath End & Weybourne
The Parish of Badshot Lea and Hale 