"weald" poems
When I wander among the swathes of Bluebells
I am minded of a nascent variety
creeping in amongst our beloved ones,
Spanish shifts of hue
in the Weald of traditional Kent.
I swear some sad maid
riding on a basket bicycle
scattering new seed
how unpatriotic !
Apr 17, 2012
Apr 17, 2012 at 4:08 PM UTC
A sportin' death! My word it was!
An' taken in a sportin' way.
Mind you, I wasn't there to see;
I only tell you what they say.
They found that day at Shillinglee,
An' ran 'im down to Chillinghurst;
The fox was goin' straight an' free
For ninety minutes at a burst.
They 'ad a check at Ebernoe
An' made a cast across the Down,
Until they got a view 'ullo
An' chased i'm up to Kirdford town.
From Kirdford 'e run Bramber way,
An' took 'em over 'alf the Weald.
If you 'ave tried the Sussex clay,
You'll guess it weeded out the field.
Until at last I don't suppose
As 'arf a dozen, at the most,
Came safe to where the grassland goes
Switchbackin' southwards to the coast.
Young Captain 'Eadley, 'e was there,
And Jim the whip an' Percy Day;
The Purcells an' Sir Charles Adair,
An' this 'ere gent from London way.
For 'e 'ad gone amazin' fine,
Two 'undred pounds between 'is knees;
Eight stone he was, an' rode at nine,
As light an' limber as you please.
'E was a stranger to the 'Unt,
There weren't a person as 'e knew there;
But 'e could ride, that London gent--
'E sat 'is mare as if 'e grew there.
They seed the 'ounds upon the scent,
But found a fence across their track,
And 'ad to fly it; else it meant
A turnin' and a 'arkin' back.
'E was the foremost at the fence,
And as 'is mare just cleared the rail
He turned to them that rode be'ind,
For three was at 'is very tail.
'Ware 'oles!' says 'e, an' with the word,
Still sittin' easy on his mare,
Down, down 'e went, an' down an' down,
Into the quarry yawnin' there.
Some say it was two 'undred foot;
The bottom lay as black as ink.
I guess they 'ad some ugly dreams,
Who reined their 'orses on the brink.
'E'd only time for that one cry;
''Ware 'oles!' says 'e, an' saves all three.
There may be better deaths to die,
But that one's good enough for me.
For mind you, 'twas a sportin' end,
Upon a right good sportin' day;
They think a deal of 'im down 'ere,
That gent what came from London way.
3.6k
We the men of the Sussex Weald
When winters nights are long
Sit beside the deep log fire
And sing the Sussex songs
We talk of crops and fertile soil
Of rich earth turned by the plough
Of fishing boats who from harbours small
Reap a harvest from the shoals
Strong ale shared by those who care
About the Sussex weald
Yes we, we who care we will be the shield
We the men of the Southern downs
Yes we of the Sussex weald
To no man will we go on bended knee
To no man will we yield
Dec 28, 2014
Dec 28, 2014 at 8:21 PM UTC
This poem was witten by my godfather Hilair Beloc 1870-1953
When I am living in the midlands
That are sodden and unkind
I light my lamp in the evening
My work is left behind
And the great hills of the South Country
Come back into my mind
The great hills of the South Country
They stand along the sea
And its there walking in the high woods
That I could wish to be
And the men that were boys when I was a boy
Walking along with me
The men that live in North England
I saw them for a day
Their hearts are set upon the waste fells
Their skies are fast and grey
From their castle walls a man may see
The mountains far away
The men that live in West England
They see the Severn strong
A rolling on rough water brown
Light aspen leaves along
The have the secret of the rocks
And the oldest kind of song
But the men that live in the South Country
Are the kindest and most wise
They get their laughter from the loud surf
And the faith in their happy eyes
Comes surely from our sister the spring
When over the sea she flies
The violets suddenly bloom at her feet
She blesses us with surprise
I never get between the pines
But I smell the Sussex air
Nor I never come on a belt of sand
But my home is there
And along the skyline of the Downs
So noble and so bare
A lost thing I could never find
Nor a broken thing mend
And I fear I shall be all alone
When I get towards the end
Who will be there to comfort me
Or who will be my friend
I will gather and carefully make my friends
Of the men of the Sussex Weald
They watch the stars from the silent folds
They stiffly plough the fields
By them and the God of the South Country
My poor soul shall be healed
If ever I become a rich man
Or if ever I grow to be old
I will build a house with a deep thatch
To shelter me from the cold
And there shall the Sussex songs be sung
And the story of Sussex told
I will hold my house in the high woods
Within a walk of the sea
And the men that were boys when I was a boy
Shall sit and drink with me
Mar 4, 2014
Mar 4, 2014 at 4:43 PM UTC
We lined the ridge of Senlac hill
The shield wall stood five men deep
In the autumn chill
The came at us on horse and foot
But we were the men of the Sussex weald
Men who would not yealed
Our shields now hacked and broken
Bodies bloodied bruised and sore
But we the housecarles of the English King
Would stand and fight the war
Prince William came with his aray the English crown to take
But we the men of Sussex
Would many French bones break
Alas our shield wall has broken
Kentish men on the right have charged
They sought to cut the Norman line
And so the men of Kent did die
The French now archers did deploy
With bitter arows fired high
Harold, our king, our leige Lord
Took an arrow in his eye
We gathered round his body
We men of the Sussex Weald
Our king was dead, the battle lost
But Sussex men don't yeald
The shield wall now in disaray
Large gaps now opened up
Brave men now die before the spear
From the broadswords vicious cut
And so we died on Senlac ridge
But there were no wounds in our backs
We died for England's glory
Cut down by spear and axe
Jan 13, 2015
Jan 13, 2015 at 6:55 PM UTC
I walk in splendid isolation along the tops of
My south country hills
As usual the Mollie dog at my side
The lashing rain has kept all but the most intrepid
Sitting in the cosy warmth of their homes
They're happy to breath warm stale air
But what I'm breathing is cold and fresh
To my right the tourist traps of Brighton and Worthing
To my left the beautiful expance of the Sussex Weald
Would I want to be somewhere else?
NO
Nov 23, 2014
Nov 23, 2014 at 1:54 PM UTC
Tall they stand, browned by sun and wind
Heads held proudly high as they get the harvest in
Yes these are men of the Sussex Weald who proudly work the land
These are the men who plant and gather the food that feeds the land
For generations handed down the long held Wealden crafts
They still know how to coppice the hazel oak and ash
They can still use the tools their grandfather used those many years ago
The billhook and the scythe, the hand axe and the ***
Now modern machines do the work but the old crafts will never die
Men of the Weald are a proud race until the day they die
Yes I'm a man of the Sussex Weald and know how to wield the axe
I know how to work the land but my pay wont make me fat
May 9, 2014
May 9, 2014 at 6:19 AM UTC
Once in the wind of morning
I ranged the thymy wold;
The world-wide air was azure
And all the brooks ran gold.
There through the dews beside me
Behold a youth that trod,
With feathered cap on forehead,
And poised a golden rod.
With mien to match the morning
And gay delightful guise
And friendly brows and laughter
He looked me in the eyes.
Oh whence, I asked, and whither?
He smiled and would not say,
And looked at me and beckoned
And laughed and led the way.
And with kind looks and laughter
And nought to say beside
We two went on together,
I and my happy guide.
Across the glittering pastures
And empty upland still
And solitude of shepherds
High in the folded hill,
By hanging woods and hamlets
That gaze through orchards down
On many a windmill turning
And far-discovered town,
With gay regards of promise
And sure unslackened stride
And smiles and nothing spoken
Led on my merry guide.
By blowing realms of woodland
With sunstruck vanes afield
And cloud-led shadows sailing
About the windy weald,
By valley-guarded granges
And silver waters wide,
Content at heart I followed
With my delightful guide.
And like the cloudy shadows
Across the country blown
We two fare on for ever,
But not we two alone.
With the great gale we journey
That breathes from gardens thinned,
Borne in the drift of blossoms
Whose petals throng the wind;
Buoyed on the heaven-heard whisper
Of dancing leaflets whirled
>From all the woods that autumn
Bereaves in all the world.
And midst the fluttering legion
Of all that ever died
I follow, and before us
Goes the delightful guide,
With lips that brim with laughter
But never once respond,
And feet that fly on feathers,
And serpent-circled wand.
1.6k
My south country that we call the Sussex Weald
A place of gentle landscapes of softly rolling hills.
My south country where I grew up and played as a child
Where I learned of nature as I studied life in the wild.
They stand in magestic glory between the land and the rolling sea
Those magestic hills we call the downs
we of the Sussex Weald
Yes, I'm a man of the Sussex Weald, of generations long gone bye
I'm a man of the South Country
And as a south country man I'll die
Mar 3, 2014
Mar 3, 2014 at 6:08 PM UTC
He gazes at the moon as its rays illuminate the glistening leaves
the caliginous night hiding the creatures of the forest
life clandestinely creeping in the shadows
eternally alone but never lonely
As he treads along the paths and leaves, wildlife trails behind him
birds circle him, and insects creep along his limbs
foliage parts for him, and vines reach for his love
The lucid forest speaks to him
guides him, treasures him
he who nurtures its essence
like a small sapling sprouting out of the soil
gently singing the sacred aria of the weald
calmly providing energy for these younglings
stretching ever higher, searching for the sun
they rise, rise up faster with his spirit,
ever growing into the sky the high branches spread
the cloudburst continues, quenching the lifeforce of thirst
new life emerges, unforeseen possibilities
the druid of the forest
the shaman of the earth
the balm of life
Jul 10, 2012
Jul 10, 2012 at 10:41 PM UTC
They say we have two halves of a whole brain.
Two sections that govern our actions
Like tyrants that ride horses with reigns made
Of nerves and weald weapons that shoot out sparks
Of neurons across our synapses
The lands of our minds that dips and rises like the Andes mountains
Amoung cerebellum fields
Where nervous horses hoofs trample
Nervous systems flowers and bend their stem
Into an L shaped pendulum that swings
Unevenly over corpus callosum oceans
That separate left and right.
Art and reason.
Two separate sets of war torn warriors fighting,
One with methodically measured maps
Marked with red flags between concurred lands of logic
And one with holistic metal armor that clinks and clanks
Around soldiers making music for them to march to
They fight over proper ways of reason
And creative formulations
Of treasons that ought not be crossed
Their trenches the rivens in our brains
That wet rot their feet with slimy blood and
Membrane juices
The left speaking in tongues
That right cannot hear when not
Set on staff lines
Or painted onto animal skin canvas
That once covered similar brain battles
Between right and left
Only to be cut and sectioned off
In improper fractions that yearn to be whole.
If only the sides would sign treaties of peace
With pens that pinch fibers together and bind
Halves into wholes.
Apr 21, 2013
Apr 21, 2013 at 6:44 PM UTC
The forest is alive with Woods and timbers of Oak. Wild thickets and sheltered homes. Ivy growth's rise over coppice. Clumps of flowers and Clover bloom where light penetrates. The weald is our home.
Apr 30, 2016
Apr 30, 2016 at 3:51 PM UTC
The war rages on,
Lead by an Angel and a Demon,
The battle for his soul,
No option of freedom.
They scream and shout,
Smash each other's skulls in,
Spill each other's blood,
But neither of them will win.
Angels and Demons,
Make his heart their battlefield,
They chop off each others limbs,
With the swords that they weald.
People think Demons are worse,
But Angels are just as bad,
At least Demons know what they want,
Angels are just mad.
Demons want him to suffer,
In depression and despair,
He thought he could rely on the Angels,
But they simply do not care.
Yea sure they fight back,
But not with their hearts,
They're just taking advantage of this boy,
Until the apocalypse starts.
He walks through school hallways,
Everyone is oblivious,
To the war inside his heart,
Why him? This is ridiculous.
They use his life as fuel,
And he realised he can't mend it,
So to cut off they're fuel supply,
He decides to end it.
Apr 3, 2014
Apr 3, 2014 at 7:08 PM UTC
They brought to me the shattered bodies
Rent by shot and shell
Most I lost but some I saved
In that surgical corner of hell
I was not a god with magical skills
Rather a man, just like you
But they told me I could weald the knife
Maybe save a few
Hands were shaking lips a tremble
As the first boy was carried in
His face a shredded ****** mass
Devoid of lips and chin
Tears in my eyes, fear in my heart
The precision cuts were made
Eight sweat stained hours later
The young boy had his new face
Feb 26, 2015
Feb 26, 2015 at 7:40 PM UTC
While the purple martin
Sings his dawn song
The bush crickets
With their scraping chirps
Form a washboard percussion
Beneath an orchestra
Of crinkling goosefoot.
It is not the sobriety of
This great Weald
And the stately occlusal
Of her tall trees
That crowds your soul.
But the ordinariness
Of the things beneath it
That make you want
To find your own voice.
Aug 9, 2018
Aug 9, 2018 at 8:31 PM UTC
Most of those poem are written at 4 AM
That's where all the unravished silences belong
When the paper and promises are both meant to burn
Flowing tears of written hopes and woes
As a butterfly’s fluttering coax the flows
Later, past the rapids, I paused to consider
Widening and filling
With a gentle lapping of inlets
And I behold once more
Quietly
There goes-
Again'
My battle with time
Most of those poem are written at 4 AM
It's when I dwell in my creations
My long lost world
In the dim weald of vanished summer
To meet the despair
I laughed in grief under haunted skies
Desolate I strayed
In my clumsy-noisy mind
Watching the dying embers
Amid the freezing night
My angry-tears are gone'
And I behold once more
Quietly
There goes-
Again'
My battle with time
I mourn over reasons
They will never figure out
They doesn't even know what I'm smiling about
My words burns within my lungs
These thoughts are deadly
And with each broken words
Shaking legs
Empty rhythms
I danced'
Most of those poem are written at 4 AM
It's when I take a sip from my devil's cup
It's when I learn to wait for the loneliest of feasts
Of worlds whereto this earth’s a hurled dream
And nothing leads to no happy home
So let me-
So let me mourn alone
Let my heart freezze
I'm an ancient ocean
I could survive anything
And everything
So I behold once more
Raw and raging
There goes-
I'm beyond'
I'm beyond time
Jan 22, 2018
Jan 22, 2018 at 4:24 PM UTC
The 'Bleak Weald', 'Dusk-Woods', 'Grove of Screeching Wights'—
A land of many names and many routes.
While veiled in gloom and dusk, with looming heights,
It ***** the ashen tears through creeping roots.
The grasping claws of forests, seeking moon,
Would turn around at slightest sound to pierce
The hearts; for those who dare disturb are hewn
And strewn apart for augurs' sights to pierce.
The pilgrim hastens into darkened woods
And stumbles fast through death, awaiting prey.
From satchel worn, returns the stolen goods
To woods betrayed—the moonlight, craved and prayed.
Thus, 'Bleak Weald', 'Dusk-Woods', 'Grove of Screeching Wights'
Became the Twilight Woods of sage and sights.
Feb 19, 2025
Feb 19, 2025 at 11:36 AM UTC
the sand beneath time :
a scape of copping hopefuls
vandals feigning as Mages
talking up the coffers
and offering angry solutions
May 26, 2020
May 26, 2020 at 1:03 AM UTC