CHALK IT UP 2021
The current submission window for Chalk it Up has now closed. We are delighted to share a selection of the poetry, short prose, photographs we've received. Plus a song! A very warm thank you to all who have contributed.
The pieces below range widely in approach and mood, from the joyous and playful to the contemplative and elegiac. As well as reflecting the continuing power of the Downland landscape to move, heal and inspire, there are reminders here of the landscape's fragility and our need to remain connected with it in ways that support and respect natural processes fully.
This project is a new venture for us, and has been a learning curve - hence the delay in the presentation of the final selection on the website. However, we hope you will feel it has been worth the wait. We'd like to think we can apply our learning and develop the project further later in the year, or again next year. Let us know what you think.
Meanwhile, enjoy the collection below. If you are not already a member, we hope you will be inspired to keep in touch with and support the work of the Brighton Downs Alliance.
The current submission window for Chalk it Up has now closed. We are delighted to share a selection of the poetry, short prose, photographs we've received. Plus a song! A very warm thank you to all who have contributed.
The pieces below range widely in approach and mood, from the joyous and playful to the contemplative and elegiac. As well as reflecting the continuing power of the Downland landscape to move, heal and inspire, there are reminders here of the landscape's fragility and our need to remain connected with it in ways that support and respect natural processes fully.
This project is a new venture for us, and has been a learning curve - hence the delay in the presentation of the final selection on the website. However, we hope you will feel it has been worth the wait. We'd like to think we can apply our learning and develop the project further later in the year, or again next year. Let us know what you think.
Meanwhile, enjoy the collection below. If you are not already a member, we hope you will be inspired to keep in touch with and support the work of the Brighton Downs Alliance.
City Crown
Calcareous cretaceous city crown, sparkling with Adonis’s blue jewels and Venus’s looking glass.
Continuous crescent of bee loved verdant lime, glow-worm green, Albion white and chalk hill blue.
Exquisite creatures dance on an enso of echinoids and eyebright.
Larks and hares whirl over chalk carpet.
Water flows through swards and voids to the south shining sea and rains round again on the rampions.
Glory bees on the barrows turn the ancient wheel of thyme.
Glimmers of starlight illuminate shepherd’s crowns and scabious in lost linnet landscapes.
Worry for the wartbiter and the white hawk.
Minute marine skeletons hold us up.
Push hard for flint, fur and feather freedom.
Tor Lawrence
Calcareous cretaceous city crown, sparkling with Adonis’s blue jewels and Venus’s looking glass.
Continuous crescent of bee loved verdant lime, glow-worm green, Albion white and chalk hill blue.
Exquisite creatures dance on an enso of echinoids and eyebright.
Larks and hares whirl over chalk carpet.
Water flows through swards and voids to the south shining sea and rains round again on the rampions.
Glory bees on the barrows turn the ancient wheel of thyme.
Glimmers of starlight illuminate shepherd’s crowns and scabious in lost linnet landscapes.
Worry for the wartbiter and the white hawk.
Minute marine skeletons hold us up.
Push hard for flint, fur and feather freedom.
Tor Lawrence
Therapy
I pull the cap down over my ears and start walking. The air is cool and fresh on my face, a relief after the stifling fug of disinfectant and sickness of the hospital.
I’m still breathless but I keep going. I struggle with the gate, then I’m through and follow the springy green path, gently downhill.
I collapse on to the damp grass. This is my ‘go-to’ place. Below me now the rusty, worn remains of the barns and the donkey wheel from times gone by. Sheep move aside for me, munching, and new grass peeps through the tilled earth with its flecks of white and brown.
I lie back and absorb the warmth of the sun. The trilling of the skylarks and the distant bleating provide the music.
I’ll be here when the wheat is tall and I can breathe in the scent of freshly cut grass. When butterflies cover this path with their iridescent blue, shimmering in the summer heat. When the men gather these sheep and transform them into skinny white creations.
These Downs are my therapy and their beauty and life will nurture me through.
Jo Harper
Lost Village
Deep in the Downs no sign is seen
of hidden homes in fields folded;
no infant sprawls upon the sward;
no tolling bell tells of the dead,
for even death itself is fled
now ev’ry soul’s departed. Yet,
if nothing of a nave remains,
where once a people knelt and prayed,
still their stories trouble the brooding earth,
beneath these sky-borne larks, rejoicing.
Chris Arthur
Chris has lived in Brighton since 1965 (when he joined the University of Sussex) and has
always loved the Downs.
Balsdean was inhabited until the Second World War, when the population was evacuated and the
buildings were used for artillery practice. These were never rebuilt, and the people never returned. A
slate marks the site of the vanished chapel.
Deep in the Downs no sign is seen
of hidden homes in fields folded;
no infant sprawls upon the sward;
no tolling bell tells of the dead,
for even death itself is fled
now ev’ry soul’s departed. Yet,
if nothing of a nave remains,
where once a people knelt and prayed,
still their stories trouble the brooding earth,
beneath these sky-borne larks, rejoicing.
Chris Arthur
Chris has lived in Brighton since 1965 (when he joined the University of Sussex) and has
always loved the Downs.
Balsdean was inhabited until the Second World War, when the population was evacuated and the
buildings were used for artillery practice. These were never rebuilt, and the people never returned. A
slate marks the site of the vanished chapel.
Downs for all Seasons
Chalky white hillsides,
Views of blue sea tides.
Grassy green slopes,
A place of great hopes.
Tall trees young and old,
Coloured flowers bright and bold.
Plants slowly towering,
Crops gradually flowering.
Sheep and cows,
Munching on leafy boughs.
A range of insects hovering,
Buzzing bees pollinating.
Spring flowers rise up,
Summer picnics with reusable cups.
Autumn leaves fall,
This is a winter walk for all.
Spring, summer, autumn or winter,
Come here for a daily linger.
Walk around the dusty mounds,
All here at the grassy Downs.
Nature is only a walk away,
It’s in your life every day.
But here is a place where nature will be found,
Our beautiful, wonderful Downs.
Amaya Daphne Paun
Age 10
Chalky white hillsides,
Views of blue sea tides.
Grassy green slopes,
A place of great hopes.
Tall trees young and old,
Coloured flowers bright and bold.
Plants slowly towering,
Crops gradually flowering.
Sheep and cows,
Munching on leafy boughs.
A range of insects hovering,
Buzzing bees pollinating.
Spring flowers rise up,
Summer picnics with reusable cups.
Autumn leaves fall,
This is a winter walk for all.
Spring, summer, autumn or winter,
Come here for a daily linger.
Walk around the dusty mounds,
All here at the grassy Downs.
Nature is only a walk away,
It’s in your life every day.
But here is a place where nature will be found,
Our beautiful, wonderful Downs.
Amaya Daphne Paun
Age 10
|
THE THINGS WE MOST VALUE It’s a sparkling morning Hear up on the hill The skylarks are singing O’er the old rugged mill The sward is all silvered And sugared with frost The things we most value All come without cost Jay Butler |
I wrote this poem for my brother whilst walking my dog Monty on our local Beacon Hill LNR.
Marc, my brother, I knew was struggling with his senior management job - most of his workforce furloughed or isolating and himself in recovery from Covid-19. I texted the poem to him whilst walking.
It was one of those crisp frosty mornings - the larks always lift my spirits. The photo (taken on my iPhone 6) is from the bridle path heading south east towards Rottingdean windmill which is just over the horizon.
I am a founding member of Friends of Beacon Hill and Co-founder and Trustee of the Beacon Hub Brighton project - a charity with the aim of establishing an Eco-education and Visitor Centre in the abandoned golf pavilion adjacent to the windmill.
Marc, my brother, I knew was struggling with his senior management job - most of his workforce furloughed or isolating and himself in recovery from Covid-19. I texted the poem to him whilst walking.
It was one of those crisp frosty mornings - the larks always lift my spirits. The photo (taken on my iPhone 6) is from the bridle path heading south east towards Rottingdean windmill which is just over the horizon.
I am a founding member of Friends of Beacon Hill and Co-founder and Trustee of the Beacon Hub Brighton project - a charity with the aim of establishing an Eco-education and Visitor Centre in the abandoned golf pavilion adjacent to the windmill.
|
Embracing the Sun What could be nicer, a walk on summer's day? At daughter's suggestion, I drove all the way To Devil's Dyke--all of Sussex to see A great panorama laid out before me. The parking was easy, the weather was hot. Check water, clothing, my footwear --the lot. Our route was selected, I followed her lead, Watching my footing, saw butterflies and weeds. Chalky paths abounded, whilst cyclists rode by, some steep slopes, some gentle, this valley so dry. Temperature's rising, enjoyment low As I view the landscape, our progress is slow. Athletic Emma is nearing the top A few steps further and then I can stop Ah now I've lost her, this is no fun! But standing at the post, she's embracing the sun. Jane Kirk |
|
Health Walk on the Chalky South Downs
Every time he went on a Health walk on the Chalky South Downs, Joe would pick up a piece of flint and inspect it. It fascinated him. This was a relic left by a Neolithic ancestor. He would hold it in his hand and feel the smoothness of the black stone surrounded with white chalk. He would imagine it being used as a sharpening tool or for scraping fur. He would breathe in the air, squint his eyes and imagine himself 6,000 years ago. Part of a tribe of people, possibly a hunter gatherer looking out for bits of flint to make arrow heads. They would make their way up to Whitehawk Hill and look around this wonderful landscape.
Life would have been harder yet simpler. Tess, his wife, would have appreciated his skills. She would have needed him. He would have been useful. Instead of being under her feet. At home, he googled Palaeontology and there was an open university course. He was just about to sign up when Tess said,
“Make yourself useful and sort out the recycling bin.”
“Yes love,” he replied, as he closed the laptop.
Karen Antoni
Every time he went on a Health walk on the Chalky South Downs, Joe would pick up a piece of flint and inspect it. It fascinated him. This was a relic left by a Neolithic ancestor. He would hold it in his hand and feel the smoothness of the black stone surrounded with white chalk. He would imagine it being used as a sharpening tool or for scraping fur. He would breathe in the air, squint his eyes and imagine himself 6,000 years ago. Part of a tribe of people, possibly a hunter gatherer looking out for bits of flint to make arrow heads. They would make their way up to Whitehawk Hill and look around this wonderful landscape.
Life would have been harder yet simpler. Tess, his wife, would have appreciated his skills. She would have needed him. He would have been useful. Instead of being under her feet. At home, he googled Palaeontology and there was an open university course. He was just about to sign up when Tess said,
“Make yourself useful and sort out the recycling bin.”
“Yes love,” he replied, as he closed the laptop.
Karen Antoni
|
Downland Haiku
High above Saltdean A butterfly emerges... Brief lives on old hills Lepidopterist Smile mirroring the downland The first Chalkhill Blue A darting hawk moth - Drawn to towering thistles Over sward jungle Alive with insects Fields of flowers on chalk downs... Small joys on the way All colours are here Butterfly kaleidoscope... Just green from afar Ancient farmers’ toils Rich carpets of life remain Will we protect them? Colin Gibbs |
|
The Devil to Pay
‘The devil’s in you girl,’ my mother had said after I’d quit the laundry.
Up here on the Dyke there was fresh cool air and the song of nightingales and skylarks; the pong of the gasworks and the choking coal dust was now a brown smudge below. I watched a couple of barques approach Shoreham harbour, scudding across the wind chopped water.
Well, if the devil were in me already, maybe I could reverse the spell? Run seven times backwards around the two mounds, holding your breath, the old man had told me, sipping his tea, waiting for the next train to Aldrington. This was my new job at the weekends, serving at the old railway carriage converted into a café.
At five I walked to the grassy mounds at the bottom of Devil’s Dyke and followed my instructions, but felt giddy after and had to lie down. When I woke a rough looking fellow was standing over me, brandishing a club.
‘That your dog?’ he shouted.
I screamed and legged it over the hill. He soon gave up.
I guess the devil will always be with me, whether on the Dyke, or in the fug below.
Stuart Condie
‘The devil’s in you girl,’ my mother had said after I’d quit the laundry.
Up here on the Dyke there was fresh cool air and the song of nightingales and skylarks; the pong of the gasworks and the choking coal dust was now a brown smudge below. I watched a couple of barques approach Shoreham harbour, scudding across the wind chopped water.
Well, if the devil were in me already, maybe I could reverse the spell? Run seven times backwards around the two mounds, holding your breath, the old man had told me, sipping his tea, waiting for the next train to Aldrington. This was my new job at the weekends, serving at the old railway carriage converted into a café.
At five I walked to the grassy mounds at the bottom of Devil’s Dyke and followed my instructions, but felt giddy after and had to lie down. When I woke a rough looking fellow was standing over me, brandishing a club.
‘That your dog?’ he shouted.
I screamed and legged it over the hill. He soon gave up.
I guess the devil will always be with me, whether on the Dyke, or in the fug below.
Stuart Condie
Viewpoint
All the way to half-way a slog
dull haul up gravel track; through scrubby fields
where cows are incurious
where the ground drags sullenly
until the land opens out a little
glancing down across valleys
spinneys; a small red farm
and here,
today
a hare
fifteen feet away
observe
the tips of his ears
his whiskers
how the fur trembles
over his bones
catch
your breath and
he’s gone; part of the distance
it’s all slog, and up again
the horizon unmoving
the summit no nearer
until
the ridge reached
the gasp and stretch of the Downs
the spine gently arched
as a hare’s
Agnes Dance
All the way to half-way a slog
dull haul up gravel track; through scrubby fields
where cows are incurious
where the ground drags sullenly
until the land opens out a little
glancing down across valleys
spinneys; a small red farm
and here,
today
a hare
fifteen feet away
observe
the tips of his ears
his whiskers
how the fur trembles
over his bones
catch
your breath and
he’s gone; part of the distance
it’s all slog, and up again
the horizon unmoving
the summit no nearer
until
the ridge reached
the gasp and stretch of the Downs
the spine gently arched
as a hare’s
Agnes Dance
Chalk Prints
When I was younger, kids in TV had coloured chalk they scrawled on walls and paper with.
My canvas was the pavement, and the chalk the white, slightly grubby lumps I dug out of the ground with my bare hands.
I tried to draw the grassland once, used the chalk and the flat grey paving slabs on the ground.
I couldn’t capture the beauty with my drawing, how I loved the butterflies and beetles and all the many multitudes of tiny plants. Still, it didn’t matter, because I captured it in my head.
Besides, the rain would wash away the picture the next time it came.
Even now, grown up, I still pick up pieces of chalk, and trace lines on stones and trees and walls.
Something to show that the chalk and I existed, before the chalk is ground away by pressure and I by time.
But if I find the right place,
Tucked away,
Maybe it will last.
Tamsin W.
When I was younger, kids in TV had coloured chalk they scrawled on walls and paper with.
My canvas was the pavement, and the chalk the white, slightly grubby lumps I dug out of the ground with my bare hands.
I tried to draw the grassland once, used the chalk and the flat grey paving slabs on the ground.
I couldn’t capture the beauty with my drawing, how I loved the butterflies and beetles and all the many multitudes of tiny plants. Still, it didn’t matter, because I captured it in my head.
Besides, the rain would wash away the picture the next time it came.
Even now, grown up, I still pick up pieces of chalk, and trace lines on stones and trees and walls.
Something to show that the chalk and I existed, before the chalk is ground away by pressure and I by time.
But if I find the right place,
Tucked away,
Maybe it will last.
Tamsin W.
Prey
Dead centre of an open Sussex field,
feathered grasses of Yorkshire Fog,
purple-pink, shimmer and syncopate
in softly hissing waves.
One chain above,
a buzzard breasts the air,
scythes sideways,
tacking her wing feathers
before the clouds,
scanning for prey.
Her shadow passes above, and below,
mouse, vole, mole and lizard start
and breathe another day.
Jonathan Warner
Dead centre of an open Sussex field,
feathered grasses of Yorkshire Fog,
purple-pink, shimmer and syncopate
in softly hissing waves.
One chain above,
a buzzard breasts the air,
scythes sideways,
tacking her wing feathers
before the clouds,
scanning for prey.
Her shadow passes above, and below,
mouse, vole, mole and lizard start
and breathe another day.
Jonathan Warner
On Beacon Hill
a kestrel unpleats in a patch of violet sky
its mate on the eggs somewhere brooding
you walk in silence and like the farmer
I count my stock eyes shaded
not for the man you were but for the we
we have become
feet in rhythm gradient rolling
against us
mud muffling
the ancient spine that binds these hills
some call it a trudge the unsure footwork
chalk rubble tricky as lime
but I love the climb backwards always behind us
forwards always ahead
Claire Booker