This summer, once again, I led stand alone poetry workshops at Whitby Folk Week. I have met some wonderful people doing this, many who come back year on year.
I always invite participants to send me poems I can share on my blog. There is no pressure to do so, and some will want to send them out to poetry magazines instead. But here are some wonderful poems from this year’s workshops. Enjoy.
Foxgloves
Purple pockets, corked with bees
searching for every nectar blossom.
Stems rising through fiery nettle beds
to display flowers of amethyst digits.
Leaves and flowers pulped,
juice solidified, prescribed to heal.
Slowly absorbed, strengthening every
fibrillating heart beat of a tired old body.
A witch’s glove, mixed with the dandelions
ochre flowers and weeping leaves.
A colourful puree in the chalice tea,
seen only through haloed light, until the end.
Sharon Fishwick Whitby 2017
Gorse
When the Gorse is out of bloom
Kissing is out of season
Or so she learnt as they walked together
On hills bright with golden flowers
Across fields, over stiles, through kissing gates
Now she knows the prickles of gorse
Walks through kissing gates alone
But the herbal tells her
Gorse – a remedy for despair
Primrose
End of term gift
The primrose bloomed on the windowsill for weeks
Then was planted out
Next to the rose the builders had trampled and destroyed
Months later it flowered again
The rose threw up fresh shoots
Messages, when they needed them most
That life goes on.
Mo Waddington
Whitby 2017
Angela Topping 
Dear Angela,Excellent poems and here is one for you – WHITBY NIGHTSWhen a lonely photographer,one hundred years ago, in Whitby,went out to investigatepitch dark, swaying lamps, the sea -wild horses in a frenzy – He’d have walked, wrapped in oilskins,to the extreme end of the jetty,rigged up his antique cameraundistracted by the human;who would come in winter? The prints are treasured. You can entera present-day shop and buy oneat a price. He didn’t oftenpoint his camera at people -like me, he didn’t like them. All in this town has changed, exceptthe sea. A stray Victorianmight find his way, though, in the small hours.He and I have walked these streets,but not in the same time-frame. M.W.
Thank you. These were written IN Whitby but are not about Whitby, so this is a great appendix.
These poems are beautiful Angela you led a very creative workshop to produce such excellent work and must feel very satisfied. I enjoyed reading them.