A DREAM OF BATH

Poetry Competition

May 2002

The copyright of each poem is the property of the author.

Introduction

What is Bath?

Of heritage, a richly jewelled seam.

And what's its future path?

Let's tell our dream.

To set the poetic scene, our evening opened with readings from earlier poems and writings about Bath, selected from a broad field, beginning with probably the oldest poem about Bath, `The Ruin'.

The `Old' and `New' parts of our evening were most enjoyably linked by a musical interlude provided by New Harmony (singers and musicians) and their leader Naomi Gibb, whose composition `Tell Me', being the only song entry, won that prize.

Junior First Prize

A DREAM OF BATH

by Hanna Elizabeth Emery

Out of my vivid dream I woke and wondered if it was true,

All those memories of Bath only known by a few.

The steaming water tumbling from the golden hole,

Where does it come from, does anyone know?

Does the Goddess Minerva hide many secrets that we don't know?

Did she see this mysterious water thousands of years ago?

Out of my vivid dream I woke and wondered if it was true,

All those memories of Bath only known by a few.

The magnificent crescents made of Bath's golden stone,

For hundreds of years people have made these their homes.

The elegant crescents and terraces of Lansdown,

Fashioned from the stones quarried in Combe Down.

Out of my vivid dream I woke and wondered if it was true,

All those memories of Bath only known by a few.

Running along the rough and bumpy cobble stones,

Shakes and rattles my wobbly bones!

Remembering the old horse drawn carriages,

People these days use them for marriages.

Out of my vivid dream I woke and wondered if it was true,

All those memories of Bath only known by a few.

My dream ended as suddenly as it began,

I woke up with a start in the back seat of our Megane.

I looked out of the window and saw with a start,

A Georgian character with a horse and cart!

Senior First Prize

A DREAM OF BATH

by Emma Davis

Monday Morning; a misty valley,

Obscured shapes, a clump of trees, a terrace of houses.

A sense of make-believe

Hangs in the mist,

Waiting,

Waiting to be broken by

Rush hour:

Where the dream world is brought back to reality

With a

Crash!

A concertina of metal and a bill from insurance.

The tranquil valley,

Now slung with the mist of car fumes,

Has become a stationary tornado of rage.

Mothers scream at screaming children, who in turn scream louder;

All the time trying to compete with the

Tuneless orchestra of irritated horns and screeching brakes,

Which is conducted by rush hour.

As the battle for work becomes more of a war,

The office chair and coffee machine becomes more appealing.

While more people across the city are seeing red,

The soothing relief of green seems as far away as civilisation,

And even trying to remember the colour of amber

Puts a strain on the mind.

And so we continue,

In a mad panic,

In a race for time,

For about an hour.

Until suddenly;

The traffic jams are spread, become thinner,

And appear to be consumed entirely,

Apart from a few cars passing silently through.

The street cleaner shuffles along, whistling his tune,

Which is replied to by that of the blue tit.

The dream world has returned again.

Veteran First Prize

BATH WRAP

by Lizanne Davies

They say Bath is the graveyard of ambition

So I thought I'd try to prove them wrong

If I turned on the tap

and wrote "Bath Wrap"

Would anybody pick up my song?

Is Bath more into bollards

than nurturing Tom Stoppards?

Are we locked in a vault in the past?

Could we not inject a flavour

that some of us might savour?

- A whiff of New York chic would be a blast

I'd really like to see our whole community

With its mind heart and soul set on fire

A daily happening place

full of grit as well as grace

To liven up the dead tired and dire

Imagine if we could be a café society

Reminiscent of Paris in its prime

For poets metaphysicians

artists and musicians

- Thinkers who're ahead of their time

We'd give birth to new ideas

shed light on foes and fears

And be real in the way that we related

We'd not just go with the flow

we'd lead the way and boldly show

It's good to be unbound not constipated!

Bitten by the cosmic bug

we'd give Bath a healthy plug

As a leading spa of spirit and well-being

A fount of inspiration

for profound regeneration

A wave of clear blue turquoise healing

I dream of the visionaries and quakers

the movers and the shakers

Gathering in service and style

By uniting our most gifted

Bath could be uplifted

If only we could go that extra mile

I dream of this old retirement city

with a voice both wise and witty

A beacon built on pillars of the sage

Could we open to the new?

become a forum with a view?

A key player on the international stage?

I dream of an innovative marriage

a contemporary horse and carriage

Of the Georgian and bohemian frame of mind

Could we take from each the best?

and deftly manifest

A spark to enlighten humankind?

Junior Second Prize

A DREAM OF BATH

by Chloë Ford

The hills that tower it soft,

green, round, rolling.

It sits in the valley the

basin, the dip.

And the River Avon winds

through it curling, splashing,

winding.

The houses that they live in

smart, beautiful, tall.

The stone to build with soft,

sandy, white, crumbly.

The old cobbled streets hard,

bumpy, lumpy, square.

The shops that line the streets

big, wide, clothes, toys, wine, food,

cheese.

The fine restaurants pizza, pasta,

service, clean, decorated.

The beautiful Roman Baths fresh,

springs, water, nice buildings.

No it's not a tub it's Bath-

the dream city.

Senior Second Prize

A VISION OF BATH

by Rebecca Kwo

To anything

There are always two sides of the coin

The black, the white, there is never any universal grey

Or universal consensus

Take this one city, for example.

Happy, friendly people.

A smile is as common place as breathing.

Always a kind word, or a gesture of help,

No-one is refused, or looked upon, or judged.

Money exchanges hands for the greater good,

To feed their families, to feed their souls.

A massive, towering building.

Astounding, intricate carving

Etched into pillars that support it.

Untouched, unfailing, unfalling,

A souvenir from the past.

The house of God, the harbour of Angels,

Still standing, standing through the wear of time.

This city sits on something bigger.

One of nature's greatest creations,

A devastating force.

A burning mound of writhing larva.

But now, today, in this century,

Buried. Sealed. The volcano is contained.

Yet from these wondrous force, goodness comes.

Water, bubbling from the earth,

Creating one of the heavenly hot springs.

The feeling gained from this water,

heated by nature herself,

Is a craving to any man.

But there is never one side to anything,

not even this city.

Cars, like beetles of hell,

With demons at the wheel.

Speed limits are ignored;

They tear around the city

Like the hounds of Hades.

Every so often, blood is spilt.

And even when it has been washed away,

The stain still remains.

Filthy beggars pick at the street,

Living in what doorways are available,

Trying for one more night to feed themselves,

Just to stay alive.

Going through the rubbish, the remains,

Of our hearty meals, our greedy taking,

Like a lowly scavenger animal.

No dignity are they spared; no sympathy.

For what bleeding hearts exist in this busy city,

Are full to the brim.

There is simply not enough compassion

To accommodate all.

In the darkened alleys

Substances more filthy than dirt

Are exchanged, dirty money changing hands

And changing hands some more.

Women sell themselves for hard cash,

Fulfilling men's animal lusts,

As illegal doings fulfil the rest.

This city is not perfect

Yet nor is it horrific.

It isn't Hell,

It isn't Heaven,

It is simply,

A City.

With no one side.

With no universal consensus.

Veteran Second Prize

BATH, A VISION

by Mary Taylor

In Bath, a city of light and warmth,

the abbey. Carved above the door,

a ladder that angels climb. One, loosing sight

of heaven, falls toward the court;

to a girl, her toga white, face as chalk,

posing, a statue. Whether an angel, ice

or corpse depends on your vision of life.

Bath, a spa where even stones are warm,

where tourists stay to escape poison

not the lead of pipes but stress and noise.

Drink steaming waters from the earth's core,

bathe, pray, sip silence

then rise, as did Bladud, a leper tending swine,

who knelt to rub spa mud on his sores

and rose, skin healed, a king, his vision restored.

Prize for Song

"Tell Me"

by Naomi Gibb

performed by Naomi and New Harmony

JUDGES AND READERS

Judges

CHAIR:Cllr Mrs Marian McNEIR

Mrs Virginia ASHCROFT

Mr Richard CARDER

Mrs Lynette HOOD

Ms Bel MOONEY

Mrs Betty SUCHAR

Mr Nigel TATTERSFIELD

Dr Rex VALENTINE

Prof Ian WALLACE

Readers (in amount of contribution)

Ms Debra KINGHORNE

Mr Nigel TATTERSFIELD

Mr Paul CRESSWELL

Mr Gérard KILROY

Major Tony CROMBIE

A booklet containing a record of the meeting with many additional poems is available from the Institution. Price: £3 ( £2 to Members)

Epilogue

May these poems and songs in their various hues

give wings once more to Minerva's Muse,

bring back all those smiles and chuckles aplenty

to their authors and audience of seven to seventy;

may their humours and tones bring mirth to each hearth

and their thoughts help us plan for the future of Bath.

Martin Sturge