TESSA CASTRO
IN COMPETITION No 275, you were invited to write a poem called Bricks. Steve Kenyon gave a vivid picture of the Bungamati Brickworks, Kathmandu, after the 2016 earthquake. John Edwards brilliantly collected brickish references from Jethro Tull, Pink Floyd, Elton John, U2, the Jam and Iggy Pop. Commiserations to them, to Sarah Nute, Frank Mcdonald and Mary Hodges, and congratulations to those printed below, each of whom wins £25, with the bonus prize of The Chambers Dictionary going to Katie Mallett for her poem about St Erkenwald’s, Southend.
When the wrecking ball was there to smash the walls To clouds of dust and rubble and the glass, Including the rose window, into shards And the altar where the priest conducted mass
Into a heap of stones, did anyone Consider that those formal rows and tiers Of bricks absorbed the sound of solemn prayer And songs of praise made for a hundred years.
I rescued two, left whole amid the sea Of broken masonry, and took them home, Put them in my garden where they served To lift a potted pelargonium
And they were holy bricks, I told myself From that poor church, possibly the nave Once loved by all who met to worship there Who campaigned for its life, but could not save. Katie Mallett
Following him, playing around on sites Of half-built houses while he checked each wall Was straight and true, I learned theodolites And keeping level, picking up a haul Of out-of-classroom lessons. Then, which sand Goes into mortar, water, what’s the mix; Watching the trowels spread it quickly, and Getting to know some of the brickies’ tricks.
And bricks, and more; the local flettons, laid In various bonds, slowly built up. How strength Grows from their closely fitted patterns, made Together and secure. The wall’s length – Long stretchers and small headers – how each course
Offset each joint, the way a family Binds all its members with the greater force Of close-knit sturdy solidarity. D A Prince
‘What bricks you are,’ Miss Gibson said, ‘Now follow me, I’m going ahead.’
She led the way, Along the path. We followed after For a laugh.
The way was steep, We all kept mum And soon we wished We had not come.
But when we reached The humble dwelling And gave our gifts Our hearts were welling. Imogen Thomas
The book, discovered at a Christmas fair, Shows pictures of a brickyard in the cold. The men wear braces, shirtsleeves, greasy caps, Their brows are lined; they could be young, or old. Each face is strained, resigned; the work is tough. I marvel that they stood it. Did they earn enough? England expanded on these working men; For centuries they broke their backs and hands To shape the clay, to bend, to stand To raise the thronging buildings of this land, The great, the gabled, chimneyed, terraced, tall, The modest home, the Court, the Lodge, the Hall. In Flemish bond, and English, England spread, And now the brickies are all gone, all dead. Yet in these red-leaved days of dying fall, The sun recalls them, down the garden wall. G M Southgate
COMPETITION NO 277 Once, when I owed the taxman money, I’d jump awake as the postman opened the garden gate. A poem, please, called Morning Sounds. Maximum 16 lines. We still can’t accept entries by post, I’m afraid, but do e-mail them (comps@theoldie.co.uk – please include your postal address), marked ‘Competition No 277’, by 10th February.