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29 October 2014
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SHOTS

Poetry in Somerset

Ah poetry! It's like a gentle ray of sunlight on a dark and gloomy day, or the first bloom of daffodills after a long, harsh winter. Erm, sort of. If you'd like to read some real poetry - and write some yourself - read on.

An anthology of distinctive and unusual poetry and prose, SHOTS was set up by a group of Somerset writers.

It was inspired by the first Open University Creative Writing Course, which began in 2006, and has recently been published by a press in Crewkerne.

However, the writing group now aims to cast a wider net.

"We hope to encourage new writers of good poetry and prose to join us and also become published," said editor Angela Huskisson.

"We are also hoping to open up our ideas to include contributions from school children, to further the joys of creative writing."

To find out more about Shots and how you can become involved, click on this link:

SHOTS >
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BBC Somerset asked Angela to write a poem about our county. You can read it below.

Somerset

Angela Huskisson
Angela Huskisson wants you to get involved

She, who weaves mystique around me like a
robe.
Willing me to cling amongst the birdsong of her
daze.
Playing tricks along the edges
of her hedges and her wetlands,
in torpor as a King lies deep inside
her belly.
Waiting for his moment to
come.

Where mists gather up like ghosts
who trail their stories
one by one and
on and on.
While hanging themselves in an endless, tireless, timeless
shift.

At that still point of a
turning world,
in a grave which is far beyond
words.
Where boundless Summers lie hidden and bidden
in the golden state
of a thousand dawns.
Scattered with starlings and honeyed by heat,
a stone heart gently beats
to the rhythm which is hers alone.

This poem is by founding member of SHOTS, Dan Wakeman:

Plastic Combat

Dan Wakeman
Dan Wakeman

I have killed my brother.
In the service of an elite street delta force.
Five fingered pain inflictors my weapon of choice.
My platoon advance
taking reed defences by storm.
A new day, a new battle
yet the same conflict.
Old stains tell new stories.
We committed acts against trees,
left our parents for hours
only to return home
when hungry and
in need of a bath.
All this in the name of playtime.

last updated: 25/03/07
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