SUE WESTCOTT
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POETRY

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                                          Memory
                                          It starts
                                         With a slither
                                        Of muted colours.
                                        The top edge
                                                                                       Of a faded photograph.
                                                                                       It hovers
                                                                                       At the peripheral
                                                                                       Of consciousness.
                                                                                       Its stillness
                                                                                       Is surprising
                                                                                       Its shyness
                                                                                       Perplexing.
                                                                                      It’s a tantalising thread
                                                                                     A short breath away…
 
                                                                                     It starts with a slither…


 Sue Westcott (C.) 2020

Picture
                                    Memorial

                               Graveyards
                               Are sombre places
                               Solid stone monuments
                               Line up grey
                               Row after row
                               In perfect alignment
                               All facing East.
                               Over grown hedges
                               Ivy crawling,
                               Clinging to stone
                                                                                                                         Covering written footprints
                                                                                                                          Indented inscriptions,
                                                                                                                          Hard to decipher.
                                                                                                                         Towering examples
                                                                                                                         Of craftsmen’s art
                                                                                                                         A bibliotheca.
                                                                                                                         An address book
                                                                                                                         Of past lives;
                                                                                                                         Often long forgotten.

                                                                                                                         A bright spray of colour
                                                                                                                         Signifies remembrance,
                                                                                                                         Honour and respect.

                                                                                                                         Graveyards
                                                                                                                         Are sombre places
                                                                                                                          Reminders-

                                                                                                                          Lest we forget!
​

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 July 2017

For one of my exercise to help get the creative juices flowing I wrote about a visit to a café that I had in Amsterdam. Using this piece of prose I turned it into a poem which is another good idea for helping to create new writing experiences. What do you think?



Amsterdam Café.
 
Looking out over the icy canal
Amsterdam’s famous landmarks
I sit cosy and warm
Inside a student café,
Surrounded by the young and vibrant.
Quiet murmurings echo gently
Around the small space.
Spontaneous laughter erupts
Bringing fresh happiness.
I order tea and Dutch Apple pie,
With golden crust
And thick, sweet, apple pieces.
Replica blue Dutch Delph
Crockery appears
Enhancing my Amsterdam experience.
Amber liquid - pale brown fills
The tiny, feminine teacup.
Steam whispers,
And my cooling breath
Signifies contentment.
I slice into the pie
Expectant; excited even
Anticipating the burst of joy
As the sweetness explodes
On my taste buds.
Slowly the murmurings fade away.
The sun glistens, sparkling
On the icy water outside.
Peace reigns.
Suddenly!
CINNAMON-
Ugly and bitter
Floods my senses.
My equilibrium shattered
And the atmosphere in the cafe
Turns sour.
I’m surrounded by
A cacophony of strident voices
Disjointed – out of synch.
My taste buds are numbed;
Paralysed.
I quickly drink the hot scalding tea.
 Now grief stricken
And leave the café.


​Sue Westcott(C.) 2017

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2nd May 2016. I have this poem printed in a small anthology that I put together as part of the Salford Pocketbook Series many years ago. I remember also being a member of Salford's poem swap scheme and I sent this to another poet who wrote back that she had been there! I thought she meant literally but she didn't! Ha! Ha!

​                                                                        A Visit To Heywood. 

                                                                    In the Bacon Butty Bar,
                                                                    nostalgia revisited;
                                                                    with sixties style music,
                                                                    complimentary furniture
​                                                                    and original furnishings.
                                                                    A meeting place
                                                                    for blonde women
                                                                    reminiscing
                                                                    with peroxide generations.
                                                                    Youths playing on the eighties equivalent
​                                                                    of pinball machines;
                                                                    Space Invaders.
                                                                    In the corner,
​                                                                    a Rowan Atkinson's impression;
                                                                    skeletal almost
                                                                    sad yet not pathetic
                                                                    drinking hot, brown, wet liquid,
​                                                                    Life giving tea.
                                                                    Smoking a matchstick thin cigarette
                                                                    Drawing, dragging deeply
                                                                    in a place; a time out of step
                                                                    with modern designer décor living.
                                                                    A blast from the past.
                                                                    I felt uncomfortable!

​
Sue Westcott(C.) 2016

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25th April 2016. I having been looking through some of my older poems which haven't seen the light of day for many years and I came across this one which I liked. I hope you do too!

                                     Windy Night.

                           Sheets of metal wind
                                                                        Rippling through the street
                                                                        Thundering, wave after wave
                                                                        Of repetitious whiplash.
                                                                        A giant's breath exhaled.
                                                                        Rumbling, rolling
                                                                        Slurping at window cracks
                                                                        Weaving intricate patterns
                                                                        With the night air.
                                                                         In the lull,
​                                                                         I hear my husband's 
                                                                         Steady breathing
​                                                                         And I feel safe.
​
Sue Westcott(C.) 2016

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12th April 2016. You can write poetry about anything. I looked at a wall in the school playground and saw these images so I wrote them down.


                                      The Wall.  
     It stands strong and sturdy,
     Forever vigilant, through aeons of time.
                                                          It forms a secure blanket around lives, hopes and dreams.
                                                          It protects all those within.
                                                          It surrounds you with a sense of security and peace.
                                                          And the colours!
                                                          Opulent oranges, rich reds, earthy browns,
                                                          Golden ochre’s and sunlit yellows. 
                                                          They merge and coalesce in a wonderful kaleidoscope of patterns.
                                                           Bricks stand uniform straight.
                                                           An ordered army of solid permanence
                                                           As they hold up generation upon generation
                                                           Of human endeavour.
​
Sue Westcott (C.) 2016

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6th April 2016 Personification is often used in poems. I wrote this many years ago and  self published it in  a small booklet called Second Thoughts, which was part of The Salford Pocketbook Series.

                                                             The Grandfather Clock.
​
​                                                             Old Father Time
                                                             Stands regal and proud.
                                                              His ebony suit
​                                                              Richly brown.
                                                              His face
                                                              Square jawed and solid.
                                                              His steady heartbeat
                                                              And booming voice
                                                              Fill the house
                                                                                      

​                                                                                                                                                                
Sue Westcott (C.) 2016

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31st March 2016  I sometimes like to challenge myself so I had a go at writing a couple of limericks. Not too sure if I succeeded. What do you think?

​               There was a young man named Frank
​               Who was told to sit on a plank.
                He sat on a nail
                And let out a wail.
​                Frank didn't see the point of the prank!

                    -------------------
               There was an old lady called Daisy
                Who did things that were often crazy.
                She jumped in a pot of jam
                                                                                    Sailed over the Hoover dam.
                                                                                    Did she come to a sticky end? That's hazy.


Sue Westcott (C.) 2016


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18th March 2016  I visited Salford Quays and walked along the canal. I sat for a little time whilst images and words surfaced and I wrote them down. I put them together and created this poem.

                                               Salford Quays

                                        Like dollops of liquid black ink
                                       Undulating across a slippery surface
                                       The water flows.
                                                                                   Macabre peacock eyes compete
                                                                                   With lava lamp splodges
                                                                                   Like some 70’s style geometric wallpaper.
                                                                                   It swirls, floats
                                                                                   Coagulates, coalesces;
                                                                                   Smooth, hypnotic flowing.
                                                                                   Then 
                                                                                   From the depths
                                                                                   Peace is disturbed
                                                                                   By the appearance of 
                                                                                   Twentieth century  packaging
                                                                                   Despoiling the calm;
                                                                                   Universal to water.
                                                                                   The flotsam sits
                                                                                   As an anathema,
                                                                                   To the work of the canal.
                                                                                   Urban decay rising
                                                                                   From its depths
                                                                                   Slowly gathering momentum
                                                                                   Now sidles away
                                                                                   Leaving dollops of liquid black ink
                                                                                   Undulating across a slippery surface.

Sue Westcott (C.) 2016

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8th March 2016 I was on a coach trip when the coach had to stop to let a car pass by and out of the window I saw this tree at the side of the road and quickly wrote down my thoughts.

​                                                     Snapshot of a Tree.

                                        In the dense, tropical jungle                      
                                                                             Lizard leg roots
                                                                             Cling to the volcanic soil.
                                                                             Bark stripped bare
                                                                             Back to bleeding
                                                                             Blood red.
                                                                             Tangled vegetation struggles
                                                                             Towards the sunlight.

​
Sue Westcott (C.) March 2016


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6th March  2016 Beaches don't just have sand on them. 

                                                    Beach Litter.
                                                Like a sand crab
                                                A leaf- brown and arched
                                                                                          Creased and moist 
                                                                                          Like supple leather.
                                                                                          Sits on the white sand.
                                                                                          A pyramid; poised
                                                                                          Delicately.
                                                                                          A work of art.
                                                                                          A breeze! 
                                                                                          A blink!
                                                                                          Gone!

Sue Westcott(C.) March 2016

1st March 2016 I take a notebook away with me on holiday and often spend time writing. I wrote the first poem on a holiday in Ibiza some  years ago and the second one on my Caribbean cruise holiday a few weeks ago. I hope that you notice the difference!

​                                                                                         Ibiza..

                                                                       Row upon row
                                                                       Of
                                                                       Sunbaked sardines
                                                                       Grilling in the sun.
                                                                       Shiny, oily bodies
                                                                       Glistening everyone.
                                                                       Is this a panorama
                                                                       Of 
                                                                       Some delicacy to eat?
                                                                       Oh no! 
                                                                       It's only holiday makers
​                                                                       Sunbathing on the beach.

​I actually put music to this poem and sang it at one of my performances! ( Back in the day! LOL)

​                                                                                 
                Antigua

                                                                     Fine, white sand
                                                                     Softly hugs a curved bay.
                                                                     Sunbeds and umbrellas
​                                                                     Dotted along the lazy stretch,
                                                                     Fused in between
                                                                     Tropical palm trees.
                                                                     Horses riding along the shore
                                                                     And the whirr of a helicopter overhead.
                                                                     So you settle
​                                                                     To turquoise waters swirling and swaying.
​                                                                     Crashing waves pound the sand, 
                                                                     Leaving wet shadows.
​                                                                     Colours merge into a translucent cerulean hazy mist.
                                                                     A rocky headland frames the picture
​                                                                     And sailing boats
​                                                                     Are visible on the horizon.
​                                                                     Under a sky surprise of ice blue 
                                                                     With the obligatory white, fluffy clouds
​                                                                     Hovering above the quiet stillness of the bay.
​                                                                     Sinking sand between your toes
​                                                                     And cold; unexpected cold water; 
                                                                     Too rough for a hesitant mermaid.
​                                                                     Footprints washed away quickly
                                                                     Leaving a moment;
​                                                                     A memory!

​Sue Westcott(C.) March 2016
30th Jan 2016  Often my writing ideas come to me at night. I can wake up with an idea or can't get to sleep until I have written my idea down. This poem arrived at 2am !

​                                                                              
A Room With  A View.

                                                                            I sat in the room for minutes
                                                                            And saw four grey walls.
                                                                            I sat in the room for hours
                                                                            And saw the disgust on their faces.
                                                                            I sat in the room for days
                                                                            And saw a cage with bars.
                                                                            I sat in the room for weeks
                                                                           And saw hope slowly disappear.
                                                                            I sat in the room for months
                                                                            And saw black despair.
                                                                            I sat in the room for years
                                                                            And saw my life pass me by.
                                                                            I sat in the room for the last time
                                                                            And finally saw remorse.

​Sue Westcott (C.) Jan 2016




    28th Jan 2016       I have a friend who also likes to write. I visited her one evening and as soon as I arrived home this poem just 'flowed.' I hope you like it.
​

                                                                         Sylvia  - To cheer you up!
 
                                                                A champagne bottle of exuberance full of fizz just ready to pop!
                                                                A spiritual soul who inspires, and refreshes mine
                                                                Thoughtfulness as deep as a well
                                                                A blinding light of bubbly goodness
                                                                A lively eccentric filled with life
                                                                A giggly mess of happiness that collapses from sofa to floor
                                                                An unbound curiosity, unfiltered and unfettered
                                                                Not afraid to ask the harder questions: to question life and existence itself.
                                                                Sylvia -she makes my head hurt!
                                                                She makes me laugh!
                                                                She’s wonderful!

Sue Westcott.(c.) Jan 2016.


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    26th Jan 2016
This was the first piece of writing that I shared with my writing group. We had to write a poem and we could choose our own subject matter.  I wrote this as a bit a fun!
​

                                       I’VE GOT TO WRITE A POEM.

                                             I’ve got to write a poem.
                                                                                       Oh! No! It’s getting late.
                                                                                       I’ve got to write a poem.
                                                                                       Come on now, concentrate.
                                                                                       I’ve got to write a poem.
                                                                                       I think I’m going to be sick.
                                                                                       I’ve got to write a poem.
                                                                                       Come on, let’s write it quick.
                                                                                       I’ve got to write a poem.
                                                                                       I’ve got to write it down.

                                                                                       I’ve got to write a poem.
                                                                                       Come on, stop messing around.
                                                                                       I’ve got to write a poem.
                                                                                       I need some inspiration.
                                                                                       I’ve got to write a poem.
                                                                                       Where is my imagination?
                                                                                       I’ve got to write a poem.
                                                                                       Find ideas inside my head.
                                                                                       I’ve got to write a poem
                                                                                      Too late! It’s time for bed!
​              Sue Westcott (c.) Oct.2015

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