Light Night at Nottingham Castle

Nottingham Light Night took place on Friday 28th February. The castle grounds heaved with hundreds of visitors who'd come to celebrate this year's event.

Many thanks to Debbie Moss who put together a programme for Nottingham Writers' Studio with the theme ‘War and Peace.’ The writers' studio was allocated a space in the atmospheric tunnel that leads from the courtyard into Nottingham Castle. War-time photographs were projected onto a screen at one end of tunnel, allowing visitors to watch the images whilst listening to poetry being read by Nottingham Writers' Studio members. The public were also invited to read poems and contribute to collaborative writing. Many children and their parents wrote words or sentences on the paper provided and these ideas will be used to write poetry which will be published in a few weeks time on Nottingham Writers' Studio website.

The tunnel which was lit with night lights for our readings.

Reading my poetry to a back-drop of war-time images.

Echoes After Dark was an atmospheric audio and visual experience in which projections of images from the city's archives were displayed on the castle walls. People paused to re-awaken past memories or to reflect on the haunting images. A moving reel of names of the soldiers who died for their country scrolled constantly throughout the night, highlighting the terrible loss of life.

Projections on the castle walls.

Eco-artist Sarah Turner worked with some of Nottingham's school children to create life-sized WW1 tank made entirely of re-cycled materials. When night fell, the tank was lit from within, creating a spectacular display.

There was also sing-a-long music to warm everyone up on the chilly winter's evening. A choir sang in the old bandstand and in the caves beneath the castle.

Nottingham Castle's caves.

Light Night also featured free activities and entertainment across Nottingham city centre, both inside and out. Galleries, churches and the city's cultural venues ran special night time programmes. Seely Primary School lit up the city’s statue of Robin Hood with special Light Night lanterns. There was an interactive pedal powered party with a shadow show, illuminated play bus and rickshaw rides. A procession with lanterns walked through St Ann’s and Sneinton with light sculptures illuminating the streets. In the Old Market Square, many locals and visitors played games whilst projections and light installations shone around them. It was a night for families - and remembering.

Two of my poems which I read on Light Night.

Dusk in Afghanistan

He looks for beauty in this brutal game
Amongst the bitter dust of Helmand;
And finds it in the sun’s splendour.
Its amber rays caressing the mountain range
As his army boots leave prints in the earth -
As barren as unanswered wishes.
He finds no flower to press against his face and smell
Memories of his wife’s perfume.
Waning daylight clings to rocks,
Holding back the invading night
Where silent terror lurks unseen.
And evil crouches, exhaling poison as it waits
Minute
By
Slow
Minute.
Squabbling insects dance and torment,
Biting and sucking his pink-parched skin.
He thinks of England’s gentle rain
Dimpling puddles under pewter skies,
And sighs.
Dusk creeps onwards darkening his thoughts
As the Reaper hides nearby,
Planning a repulsive requiem
Whilst searching for the next soul
To steal from loved-ones across the sea,
So
Many
Miles
Away.
The soldier wipes his furrowed brow
Wrinkled like the wind-blown dunes.
Eyes raised, he looks into the navy sky;
A shared constellation with home.
Moving onwards
Past peripheral shadows of outcrops,
Like broken teeth in a rotten mouth.
Tears roll down the hardest face each silent night
In this foreign land, where each man dreams
Of going home.


Sepia Memories

Touching your profile in sepia,
Tracing my finger
Around your smile.
Bundles of letters tied with ribbon,
Frayed and faded
It hugs your words.
A tear-stained message
Peppered with smudged pools
Of diluted ink,
Telling of your death in war.
Sixty years of tears,
Of believing you loved me.
That you held me in your heart
As you breathed your last.
Pages of memories
To read
And fold.
To mark for future return,
When dwelling and lingering
Stings like salt
Seeping into a suppurating wound.
And then, a voice whispers cruelly
Shredding those pages,
Tearing at the truth,
Erasing each word.
A chance remark reveals
You live!
You lied.
A hero in war; a coward in love.
I heard the angel who nursed you
Whilst I grieved,
Shared your three-score years,
Whilst I held in my arms
Your sepia bundle of words,
And the child you never knew.

Angela Barton

Trapped Butterfly

Trembling behind gauze, like a trapped butterfly
Listening to the scrunch of rubber on gravel.
He’s home.
A door slams as headlights fade.
How can a lover become a stranger,
As swiftly as a once polished plum
Becomes covered in a delicate froth of fungi?
Turn back the clock to those heady fruitful days
When love blossomed.
Shared dreams divided by time
And split like parched wood.
Unnourished.
His footfall, once a welcoming tread,
Now splinter my calm with regret
As he strides on the polished parquet.
Turn back the clock to a time when our words tumbled
like a rushing brook in a spring thaw.
Before the wordless air ambushed me,
Squeezing my breath at his glance.
A look which once glowed with love,
Now glowers.
Loving praise decayed into mute criticism.
A curl of his lip.
Turn back the clock to a time when the sun shone
On entwined fingers, and a passionate embrace.
His kiss, once lingering and heartfelt is but a memory,
Bleached pale by time’s incessant race.
“Goodnights” unspoken.
An extinguished bulb
Signals the end of his day.

Angela Barton

The Forgotten Scarf

Yesterday, whispers that war was over
Trickled down the wireless, and filled the room with news
As sweet as honeysuckle blooms.
Hopes of my love returning, prodded my eyes through the night,
Keeping sleep as remote as the land in which he fought.
And now I’m running, frightening birds in sallies of flight
As I race, brushing blossoms and dew-laden ferns aside.
Holding petticoats aloft as words escape my lips,
“He’s home.”
I saw him from my window, waving at the gate;
Its five bars, lichen encrusted and pale.
I’m hurrying, across the purple paddock
Infused with scents of lavender and meadowsweet.
I’m skipping through silver flashes of dew
Which sparkle like a bride’s smile on each translucent leaf.
“He’s home.”
I’m jumping, soaring over hillocks
Of lanky wild grasses which sway to the breeze’s melody.
I remember the soft touch of his lips on mine,
His arms which held me tightly, cocooned in love.
And now, raw and bloodied, I must hold him.
“He’s home.”
The sun dims and slinks behind purple clouds
Which slip across the bare blue sky.
I reach the gate and can’t hide the smile upon my lips,
Even though the peeling paintwork stabs my fingertips
As my knuckles clench the wood.
I call his name, but silence greets me like an insult.
The lane is bare beneath arms of sycamore,
A tunnel of boughs through which dreams travel.
Golden rays re-appear, warming my face; but not my heart.
And then I see it,
Tied to the gate post which stands proud and sentinel.
A forgotten scarf waving a frayed greeting in the breeze.
Just a blue tattered yarn, ripped and discarded.
A trick of the light.

Angela Barton

A Bouquet Of Memories

My resting place, a crescent of golden sand
Cradles my bouquet of life’s memories
As my shadow touches the sparkling rock pools,
Glinting like splintered glass.

Crumbling cliffs guard my spirit,
As Lowry figures, heads bowed against whipping winds
Trudge along the snaking path.
Steps my worldly self once trod.

And still the gaping cave yawns seaward, my childhood refuge
From sea dragon and pirates bold.
And there I met my love one summer’s day
In the mouth of that cave, when he stole my first kiss.

Wed on these sands, flowing gown, a smile
And blissful tears beneath wide blue skies
As cousins frolicked and wine was sipped,
Now gentle zephyrs carry my soul.

Slice of melon grins on our children’s faces,
As my love and I sat hand in hand
By the bubbling breeze-stirred shallows.
My voice now whispers through russet leaves.

Embracing the wind which blows through my presence,
And whisks away troubles into raging seas
As gales stir the oceans and rainbows shine resplendent
With each skyward-tossed champagne spray.

My spirit floats with fragrant blossoms
Carried on a summer’s breeze, then as night falls
And stars a-light, sweet remembrance of my life
As I dance with angels on gossamer thread.

My ashes are strewn in sighing rushes,
Soft surging dunes and well-trodden paths
Which meander through meadows of larkspur and daisy,
As I watch and remember, and wait for my love.

Angela Barton

A Road Of Lemon Bricks

A hag with skin as green as crinkled cabbage,
Screamed a cackling curse.
A vortex whisked
Twisting spirals and coils
Like an unfurling skein of wool.
I held him close, my four-legged friend,
A bundle of fur that nudged closer
For comfort.
I closed my eyes, squeezing them shut
Until they puckered like smocking.
Silence.
A sudden bark and bare blue skies,
As a new world emerged.
With friends of tin, and straw
And a lion as timid as a whisper.
And small folk dancing and skipping.
Wishes come true if you only believe,
Or so the good witch said.
A gift of red shoes,
Which twinkled like the nursery rhyme
With each step I took,
Arm in arm with my chums.
And still the journey made me gasp with wonder.
A road of lemon bricks.
Apes which soared on outstretched wings
Over rainbows in the cyan sky.
A magic castle where lived a wizard
Whose voice boomed from beyond.
“Click your heels in your ruby shoes
And make a wish from your heart.”
With a hug and some tears
I bid farewell to a beast now so brave,
A scarecrow who understood
And a man of tin who cried with love.
Inhaling, I made a wish
“I want to go home - there’s no place like home.”

I wrote this poem for a bit of fun really. I entered it into a 'Going Home' themed competition. I also entered Dusk In Afghanistan and was delighted to win first place with that poem. If you'd like to read it, I put it on my blog a few posts earlier.

Sepia Memories

I wrote this poem for a competition with the theme, 'A Chance Remark.'



Sepia Moments

Touching your profile in sepia,
Tracing my finger
Around your smile.
Bundles of letters tied with ribbon,
Frayed and faded
It hugs your words.
A tear-stained message,
Peppered with smudged pools
Of diluted ink,
Telling of your death in war.
Sixty years of tears,
Believing you loved me.
That you held me in your heart
As you breathed your last.
Pages of memories
To turn
And fold.
To mark for future return,
When dwelling and lingering
Stings like salt
Seeping into a suppurating wound.
And then, a voice whispers cruelly
Shredding those pages,
Tearing at the truth,
Erasing each word.
A chance remark reveals
You live!
You lied.
A hero in war; a coward in love.
I heard the angel who nursed you,
Whilst I grieved,
Shared your three-score years.
Whilst I held in my arms
Your sepia bundle of words
And the child you never knew.

Angela Barton

The Night Train

Sitting here
On the night train

Rushing and hushing through the dark,

Leaving you behind.

Raindrops, like tribal markings,

Obscure my view

Upon the shadowed glass on which I sigh.

Dawn breaks, an apricot glow
Wraps around the horizon.
You lied
When you said I was your beginning
And your ending.

I made you the owner of my heart
As you held my hand in yours.

But time spells out the truth
And you were careless with my gift,

My heart.

The sun rises, bringing clarity
To sight and thoughts.

Staring at the passing trees, with leaves
Waving like Tibetan prayer flags,

I understand.

I only leant you my heart,

It's not yours to keep.

I'm going home.

Written by Angela Barton.

The Night Train won first place in a poetry competition with the theme of 'Clarity.'