Industrial Entries 2021
Writing
Classes 326 & 327
Class 326
Class 327
Rediscovered
In the desert you forget
What it’s like to be wet.
But in UK come November
You will remember.
Rain rediscovered -
A great, complex word,
Of many parts
and arts.
Think
and link:
Re: concerning, or again;
Dis: prefix for opposite, like dain/disdain;
(I know that’s obtuse,
A word no longer in use);
Cover: smother, hide, defend;
Ed: suffix, past, gone, the end.
A season smothers the last,
Yet our future is carved from the past;
From each now the next is discovered -
No, rather, evolved, renewed, rediscovered.
Rediscovered. (On Shirlaw Pike).
The dog, hare mad in half a gale and deaf to the call, scattered the flock across the hill.
The shepherd cursed on that sea facing slope, fearful of the day ahead,
While rooks erupted from the wood-topped law behind, black ash against a sky in chaos.
And the rain hammered like bolts of iron into him.
Coming down off the Drovers’ road, his mind adrift, he slipped on an ancient millstone,
Half hidden in the soft peat. Out of place and time. Capsized. Sinking back to bedrock.
Two tons of gritstone, rough-hewn, its furrows lichened filled, its eye unblinking, accusing.
He felt the bone break and in his pain and self pity looked to the streaming heavens/
And cried, Why?
Four hundred years before, newly quarried and bound for the Port of Blyth,
The stone sank the cart, axle deep, into the bog while the horse, whip-driven, steamed in the rain.
But no Dutch mill owner would dress and fit this stone onto its bed,
And no quarry owner would be paid.
The Carter had, to save the shilling at the turnpike, taken the high road.
But now he cursed as he levered the stone away, fearful of the Foreman’s wrath.
Fearful for his family.
It fell, slowly settling into the quag and in his anger and self pity he looked to the streaming heavens
And cried, Why?
Between the Then and Now the millstone had been discovered and rediscovered.
Remembered and disremembered. It was a stone with no answers. Only questions.
Rediscovered
Easter Day 2020. Only go outside for food,
do not touch the dog’s mercury.
If you have a temperature
cover your mouth and nose with wild garlic.
From your window count
wood anemones of Monks Walk.
The graveyard grows dense with it,
yet do not confuse it with wood sorrel
whose head will bow each night.
Rediscover bedstraw, ladies, by the Black Bridge.
Lie there and pray to yellow archangel
and jack-by-the-hedge
to throw off the rattle
of the white deadnettle.
Stitchwort the front door, block the letter
box with flowering gorse,
listen to the chimes of townhall clock,
to the news from moschatel, red campion, sweet cicely.
Find and find again the wildflowers of Mill Walk Wood.
REDISCOVERED.
Divorced
seer
renovated
found
it.
A
crossword
clue
and
crosswords
are
the
word
lover’s
delight,
anagramming,
punning,
breaking
down
into
constituent
parts,
stretching
meaning
and
etymology.
Rediscovered:
from
the
French
to
uncover
again;
four
syllables,
or
is
it
five?
In
older
English
the
final
two
letters
could
be
pronounced
and
that
might
be
done
by
the
poet,
too.
Take
the
word
to
bits
and
find
its
original
meaning and then, perhaps, apply it in new ways as language lives and evolves.
That
is
apt,
since
when
we
uncover
something
we
had
forgotten
or,
maybe,
either
neglected
or
deliberately
set
aside,
what
is
rediscovered
has
evolved,
too,
as
time
modifies
everything,
even
in
the
minutest
amount.
A
most
stunning
rediscovery
was
the
mathematician
Andrew
Wiles’
solution
of
Fermat’s
Last
Theorem
in
1994,
after
the
solution
had
remained
hidden
for
three
hundred
and
fifty
years.
The
change
was
in the theorem’s importance to modern mathematics.
How
pertinent
rediscovery
is
today
as
we
break
out
of
pandemic
seclusion.
Face
to
face
again
but
everything
changed.
Grandchildren
grown,
paths
over
grown.
Friends
the
same
yet
different
through
age
and
experience,
and
a
world
that
has
altered.
All
rediscovered but all new.
Rediscovered
I stare through a hole I’ve made in the wall, where my curiosity at the hollow sound my fist
made got the better of me. I see a step, and with my torch, three more, before they turn and
head downwards. The smell is dank and mysterious.
I cut the hole bigger and squeeze through. The stone sucks away my warmth. I proceed,
clutching my torch like a crucifix.
I emerge into a low cellar, taking comfort in my light. I feel my heart race as I notice a ring
of stones upon the floor. I kneel at the stones and shine my torch into the black core. A well?
This, after all, had been a weavers cottage, 300 years ago. The hungry darkness swallows my
light. It is deep. I drop in a coin. Water!
As my curiosity soars, the beam of my torch reveals something caught between the stones,
about a metre down. I reach over, almost too far, stretching to get hold of it, fingers brushing.
Then I have it. I bring it up into the light. An old leather child’s shoe, hardened with age. A
breeze from the depths caresses my face. The darkness deepens.
Ben Hopkinson
Joanne Brooks
Henry Pottle
Ben Hopkinson
Philip Stuckley