Spring is here and so is the April parish magazine.
Check inside for information about Holy Week and Easter, plus the results of the Farnham Poetry Competition, news from Badshot Lea, the Church Cat and much more.
Picture by Kelly Sikkema on Unsplash.
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
Third prize:
New Atlantis – Liam Smith
Second prize:
‘direction of travel’ – Kate Kennington Steer
First prize:
Of Touch – Richard Lister
Highly commended:
Unity Poem – George Lovelock
Together – Jessica Jones
Third prize:
Timeless Duality – Emily Peters
Second prize:
Stars – Andrea Domingo
First prize:
But they still forget – Evie Goode
Highly commended
Unity – Najia Eshaal Ali
Unity – Eesha Haque
When – Peggy Wingham
Third prize:
Me and You – Imogen Clark
Second prize:
What It Means to be Together – Alice Colombini de Mello and Penny Lockyer
First prize:
Family Brings Us Together – Max Heath
Joint first prize:
Family – Dolcie Della Jennings
Unity “Means Humanity First” – Naqasha Nawal Ali –
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 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!
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.
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.
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!
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.
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.
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
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Picture by Robert Butts on Pexels
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Together here safe
Swim with love against the tide
Touching the heart space
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.
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.
Picture: Taeshin T. on Unsplash
Northern Kenya
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.
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…
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.
Picture: Samburu County, Kenya, 2014 by Edward Harris on Flickr. License: https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/
St Mark’s.
Saturday, March 15th.
5pm.
The parish runs the Farnham Poetry Competition on behalf of the Farnham Literary Festival. The entries are now all in and the winners will be announced at the awards evening and open mic on Saturday, March 15th, at St Mark’s Church, starting at 5pm. Coral Rumble and Linda Daruvala, the two judges will present prizes and also read from their own works.
The 16s-and-under awards will be presented first, and young people will have a chance to share their poetry if they wish. Then there will be an interval so that if any of the families need to go home, they can. The over-16s awards will be presented after the interval, and there will be an open mic.
All welcome to attend, to hear the poetry and to join in the open mic.
Welcome to March, to Spring, to Lent.
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.
To download your magazine, click on the button above.
The poetry evening which was postponed in June has been rearranged for Thursday, October 3rd at St Mark’s, starting at 7.30pm.
There will be an open mic and a chance to chat about poetry. Refreshments will be served or bring your own.
Whether you are a budding poet or a practiced professional, or you just
like to listen to poetry, come and join us at St Mark’s for a friendly, inclusive evening. There will be no pressure to read anything out, but you will be welcome to if you wish.
Admission is free but donations will be welcome. To find out more, contact poetry@badshotleaandhale.org or call 07842761919.
The Parish of Badshot Lea and Hale 