Best Whitby Poems
I wonder if your children rise at night
And haunt the shadows with your name
I wonder if memory would take flight
Were you now as then the cuddled same
How did you come to me the first time
What did we say to start the flame
Our romance fell apart in its sweet prime
But O I love you then, just the same
Not deep enough to fast for food or sleep
Not strong enough to yield a diamond tear
Not angry enough to find a cliff and leap
You were special, but not to me most dear
So what then this feeling I cannot shake
Since your sudden death to me was told
No guilt could make me as stars keep wake
For that which was nobody's gold
Yet, my dear, you were always something
Much better than the best of us, a gem
We did not know the value of, no king
Was finish in rule ... no rose without a stem
You were the silent part that value brought
To longing, weary, harried hearts
The butterfly in death's destroying net caught
The light that pious prism distorts
Farewell, Royna, I pray your quest for happiness
Will make us meet again ... beyond this vale
Of callousness ... in brighter verdant plain. Rest
In your little while ... God's meries never fail.
The moon reflected on the sea,
A night more beautiful than day.
I wheezed and struggled up the steps
And looked out over Whitby Bay.
I saw the harbour far below,
And heard the splashing of the waves,
I turned around to see the church,
The ruined abbey and the graves.
I thought of Dracula, the Count,
Imagined him and Lucy there,
And then I saw a hulking shape -
But, oh, the menace in that glare.
He showed his fangs and hissed at me;
My feet were rooted to the spot.
I cried for help and waved my arms
At people on a distant yacht.
He lunged and bit into my neck;
I tried to fight but felt so weak.
And that is how I came to die -
And you’re the prey I need to seek…
for Darren's Bram Stoker contest
Johnny was a Whitby boy, well tattooed with attitude
Johnny used to play the blue guitar
Lived off Prospect Hill, his family they live there still
Used to play for drinks in the harbour bars.
Go Johnny go, let me hear your rhythms flow
You can take me down or raise me high
Play Johnny play, come on play your blues today
You can take me down or raise me high
Johnny started taking stuff, times were tough, couldn't get enough,
No longer played the harbour bars
His blue guitar just stands, longing for the magic hands
Of the man whose mind went somewhere east of Mars.
Go Johnny go, let me hear your rhythms flow
You can take me down or raise me high.
Play Johnny play, come on lift my mood today
You can take me down or raise me high.
How can it be someone as talented as he,
Could blow it all away
It's just insane to put that poison in your brain
And throw it all away
Passed his gravestone yesterday on it, the epitaph says
Johnny used to play the blue guitar.
If he was here today, everybody here would say
Come on Johnny play your blue guitar.
Come on Johnny play your blue guitar.
SEE AND HEAR ME SING THIS ON
YouTube. Louis Spence Blue Guitar. Thanks.
High winds - stirring sea - surf pounds - Whitby beach
Storm clouds - residual - seagulls - frantic cry
Midnight - a figure - in view - ascending
Bowed down - wearily - cliff steps - Abbey bound
Skywards - waning moon - purple - in streaking
Figure - looking down - last time - hesitates
Cliffside - beckoning - then moves - in seeing
A flash - lightening - from grave - arising
Hungry - Dracula - no escape - figure froze
Exposed - vulnerable - a scream - was stifled
No-one - witnessing - horror - stricken face
Could, would - testify - to what - next took place.
Count Dracula a haunting figure, through centuries alike
desending on Whitby,an eerly thought, also a shuddering fright
between my hometown Middlesbrough, and the seaside port
the 199 steps to the abbey dwells a frightening thought
Holidaying in Whitby, many times in our youth
the tails of the night stalker,petrifyingly uncoath
tucked up at night, a feeling of surreal
Dracula would hound the streets, lives for the steal
Preying on the vulnerable,gaining all their trust
attacking unexpectedly,for blood that is a must
his black cloak, gaunt profile,terrifying vitality
protruding teeth over over ruddy lips, so remarkably
The Transalvanian terroriser, 400 years ago
puncturing the necks of ladies,blood does slowly flow
evidently the Count,his resting place Whitby Abbey
1000`s do attend each year, a gothic ceremony.
1st in contest.
Paul beadnall for :
Sponsor Linda-Marie The Sweetheart of P.S.
Contest Name "CREATURES" of the Night!
27/8/11
Sponsor Linda-Marie The Sweetheart of P.S.
Contest Name "MAY MAGIC" (ALL 1ST PLACE WINS)
My husband is naughty a very naughty man
He throws down the newspaper on top of his beer can
He buys himself a sandwich in a cardboard box
And puts it in the laundry with his woollen socks.
He takes off his pyjamas and chucks them on the floor
He uses hankies frequently, so I have to buy some more.
He wants to have thick sauces on top of all his food.
And when he has a hypo his speech is very rude.
I gave him such a shock when I learned to curse and swear
But we really need to,as “eff off “is everywhere.
Why, even in the Bible there are some wicked words
I’ve not read it all yet, except Psalm 23rd.
I mean to finish reading it and then when I must die,
I’ll come onto a cloud and shout,Oh pi is in the sky.
For transcendental numbers give a hint divine.
Although you can get it better with a glass of dry, white wine.
My husband drinks draught guinness and then he fall asleep
He hollers and curses when the oven timer bleeps.
He eats a piece of kipper and cried out,Oh,dear God!
Nobody caught this b*gger with a fishing rod
He wants to move to Whitby and walk upon the sands
Sit in the audience and hear the big brass bands.
He wants to see the sun rise and to see it set…
So please send God some gelatine in case the air’s too wet!
Whitby is a great little town
Nearby Scarborough is too noisy by far
Here at Whitby. you can sit around
On the beach dreaming of castles afar
To Transylvania, to the castle of Bran
Where. I saw a vision of Vlad
Known as the Impaler what a bad lad
Leaving his victims impaled so sad
I suddenly saw the look in his eyes
I scurried away I was shaking inside
Round and round the castles did run
Didn't want my body left hanging I cried
His shoes were muffled by the felt coverings we wore
This Is the tradition when visiting here
Felt his hot breadth on my neck
Nearly stiff with fright never known such fear
Through memories mist his hand appears
Grabbing my jacket he hastened to say
This is nice how much did you pay
When I told him in a low voice, Oww Much.*
were the words that came my way
The spell was broken I could see
Vlad the Impaler was smiling at me
Did I frighten you your face was a scream
Felt like impaling him for all to see
Eyes opened I was back at Whitby sands
Was just a small dream inspired by a plaque
Left to commemorate me a citizen called Bram
Showing the place where I wrote. Dracula.
*oww much a typical Yorkshire expression of surprise at the high cost.
Tg
I remember all the humorous things we did
Peering into windows lit by lamps
Climbing cliffs then chased by geese and dog
Walking down from Redcar,sea so still
After Saltburn Pier, the cliffs high jump
I remember all the funny things we did
Wandering Whitby in a sea grey smog
Eating a pork pie cut into lumps
Climbing cliffs then chased by geese and dog
Old Hunstanton ,white sands where we’d sit
The wild spikes of the gorse spread out unclamped
I remember all the colours,scents and that
I feel the joy inside my heart is lit
Woe is leavened by old nature’s stamp
Climbing high then chased through mud by dogs
We see in shadows shades are not so stark
In Studland Bay astonished by skylarks
I remember all the humour and the love
Climbing cliffs then caught by geese and God
The end of the Pier was shrouded in mist
the Shadows we cast were defining,
We plighted our troth, and then we kissed,
Neath a full orbed moon that was shining,
We walked hand in hand to the end of the pier,
The ghosts of our past reawakened our fear,
We had to be strong, for ourselves and each other,
Whether we could, we were about to discover.
The mist started lifting and in the moonlight
a blanket of bats had just taken flight,
then in a moment the bats were not there,
they had completely dissipated into thin air.
We both had worked on the Pier in the past,
It had long since closed, when we were there last,
Stoker wrote, Whitby, was were the vampires came,
But this abandoned pier received them just the same.
As we approached the door, that led into the pier,
From the frightened flight of bats, one still was here,
A sudden metamorphosis, took place within the frame,
And a vampire stood before us, I knew him, and his name.
Vladimir, I said to him, I once fought by your side,
I am your nemesis and fate, from me you cannot hide,
For I am here, to stop your cheer, and the evil that is you.
he gave me quite an evil look, deciding what to do.
I shined my torch upon his face,
Remembering how we loved this place,
The fair was now in disrepair,
But seeing Vladimir, we did not care,
The place had always been such fun,
especially when blessed by a warm summer sun,
Vladimir was an amusement, placed within the fair,
whose main role it was, to frighten and to scare,
The pier had no power, so we could not turn him on,
But the memory of what happened, has certainly not gone,
To animate the mannequin, required a coin to go,
Then Vladimir would start, his ghoulish vampire show.
He would give an evil cackling laugh, that shred your nerves apart,
He certainly was quite frightening, and not for the faint of heart.
I suppose it was a funny place for us to reminisce,
But when in love there are memories, you do not want to miss.
I think we now are over, the need to see the pier,
Generally, we remember it, over a glass of beer,
I suppose we might go back one day and have a laugh at Vlad,
Although the old Piers crumbling, it’s really rather sad.
I puffed and panted up the steps (and thought
about the novel Dracula, in which
the character called Mina ran up there)
and gasping, wheezing crawled towards the top
to look out over Whitby from the cliff.
The view was simply beautiful, I found -
enough to take one's breath away (but I
was breathless as it was, and so I tried
to catch my breath!) I didn't want to think
about the trek that faced me as I left
to walk back down those steps...
Remembering a visit to Whitby & climbing the famous 199 steps
written 6th January for Constance's B 'Breathless' blank verse contest
GOTH GIRL
Sitting beside two Goth girls;
Black hair, black clothes,
Black eyelashes,
silver studs in the knee-length boots,
pale daughters-of-Dracula complexions.
I could be in Whitby for a Goth convention,
standing on a crag
looking out on the cold North sea,
but I'm having a coffee break
from learning Swedish,
and the blonde thread running
through my thoughts
has been momentarily lost,
a shadow darkens the sun.
Sneaking a glance at her chill loveliness;
no fangs or love bite from the master
blemish her ivory neck,
and I laugh behind my newspaper,
laugh at the adult restraint
I have to honour,
laugh at the sentence,
Welcome to my castle!
She turns to look my way
but I have to get going
- Age before Beauty -
before the light of those eyes
makes me break
my thousand-year silence.
whitby jet
monkey puzzle tree
ebony
4/ 28/ 2018
On a sunny day in late September
we were on our way to Runswick Bay,
on a walk that we gladly remember,
meeting people on the Cleveland Way.
Assorted folk with the same idea
taking in distant views over the sea,
a gentle breeze, the far horizon clear,
nearby hips and haws bright on bush and tree.
Whoever you meet, just what do you say?
Should it be ”Hi!” or rather “Hello!”?
Is it “Good morning” or maybe “Good day?”
If they greet me first I go with the flow.
Whatever is said may offer a clue,
tell you something about the other,
whether there is further chat to pursue
or just some remarks about the weather.
Having arrived we sat by the beach
eating our sandwiches watched by some dogs
and seagulls, waiting to swoop or to reach
for tasty morsels, whatever drops.
After a paddle to refresh my feet,
there were four and a half miles to return
to Sandsend for our walk to complete.
First there were steps to climb by the burn,
passing more people too breathless to greet;
grateful to pause we let them pass by
with a nod or wave – but wished for a seat!
There at the top a gate was held wide
by a couple with smiles to wave us through.
We paused as I stretched my cramp to ease
also to remove a stone from my shoe;
then onward we trod refreshed by the breeze.
Off the cliff face using the updraught
fulmars glided scanning the sea below.
Retracing our steps, features we'd passed
informed us how far we still had to go.
High on his combine, late harvest to reap
the farmer raised his hand as we stopped,
paused to pick blackberries more sharp than sweet.
Speckled wood butterflies near to us dropped.
At last we came to more steps to descend,
holding the rail as these tested our knees.
Pausing again with views of Sandsend
and spray from breakers whipped up by the breeze.
Back at the car there was salt on the screen.
Time to examine my blistered feet
and to doze awhile, pondering the cuisine
of Whitby and just what we might eat:
Scampi and whitebait with too many chips,
cans of ginger beer to ease it all down,
observed by gulls we looked at the ships
that brought our supper to this port of renown.
* * *
We count our blessings that we were able
to escape to the coast for refreshment
before Covid restrictions on travel
could prevent a day of enjoyment.
Caedmon's Hymn
by Michael R. Burch
At the monastery of Whitby,
on a day when the sun sank through the sea,
and the gulls shrieked wildly, jubilant, free,
while the wind and time blew all around,
I paced those dusk-enamored grounds
and thought I heard the steps resound
of Carroll, Stoker and good Bede
who walked there, too, their spirits freed
—perhaps by God, perhaps by need—
to write, and with each line, remember
the glorious light of Caedmon's ember,
scorched tongues of flame words still engender.
Here, as darkness falls, at last we meet.
I lay this pale garland of words at his feet.
Originally published by The Lyric. "Cædmon's Hymn," composed at the Monastery of Whitby (a North Yorkshire fishing village), is one of the oldest known poems written in the English language, dating back to around 680 A.D. According to legend, Cædmon, an illiterate Anglo-Saxon cowherd, received the gift of poetic composition from an angel; he subsequently founded a school of Christian poets. Unfortunately, only nine lines of Cædmon's verse survive, in the writings of the Venerable Bede. Whitby, tiny as it is, reappears later in the history of English literature, having been visited, in diametric contrast, by Lewis Carroll and Bram Stoker's ghoulish yet evocative Dracula. Keywords/Tags: Caedmon, hymn, angel, inspired, inspiration, inspirational, first English poem, Old English, oldest English poem, Anglo-Saxon, Bede, cowherd, Christian, monk, spiritual, god, sonnet
Caedmon’s Face
by Michael R. Burch
At the monastery of Whitby,
on a day when the sun sank through the sea,
and the gulls shrieked wildly, jubilant, free,
while the wind and Time blew all around,
I paced that dusk-enamored ground
and thought I heard the steps resound
of Carroll, Stoker and good Bede
who walked here too, their spirits freed
—perhaps by God, perhaps by need—
to write, and with each line, remember
the glorious light of Caedmon’s ember:
scorched tongues of flame words still engender.
***
He wrote here in an English tongue,
a language so unlike our own,
unlike—as father unto son.
But when at last a child is grown.
his heritage is made well-known;
his father’s face becomes his own.
***
He wrote here of the Middle-Earth,
the Maker’s might, man’s lowly birth,
of every thing that God gave worth
suspended under heaven’s roof.
He forged with simple words His truth
and nine lines left remain the proof:
his face was Poetry’s, from youth.
“Cædmon’s Hymn,” composed at the Monastery of Whitby (a North Yorkshire fishing village), is one of the oldest known poems written in the English language, dating back to around 680 A.D. According to legend, Cædmon, an illiterate Anglo-Saxon cowherd, received the gift of poetic composition from an angel; he subsequently founded a school of Christian poets. Unfortunately, only nine lines of Cædmon’s verse survive, in the writings of the Venerable Bede. Whitby, tiny as it is, reappears later in the history of English literature, having been visited, in diametric contrast, by Lewis Carroll and Bram Stoker’s ghoulish yet evocative Dracula. Keywords/Tags: Caedmon, hymn, Old English, Anglo-Saxon, oldest English poem, England, Christian, spiritual, angel, poets, poetry, Whitby, Bede, Carroll, Stoker