Northumbrian Association

WINNER OF

THE NORTHUMBRIAN ASSOCIATION’S 2009 WRITER’S AWARD

Postcard

by Rachael Barnwell

Think of me in this place: a summer sunset amid the dunes.
In the west, light glows bronze-gold, seeps as slow as honey down to the horizon, drips behind the skyline, languid. The colour swirls into the still bay water reaching out towards the open sea, a mirror to pink and gilt clouds trailing high in the dusk.

Think of me here. The evening air is sweet: the scent of it is long grass and ripening fields, rising up with the fading heat of the day to curl light against my tongue. There is sea salt on the inshore breeze, a sharp-to-taste lick of it over my lips. The North Sea is a thousand diamond eyes looking back at me as I look on, a glimmering stretch of water rushing up the sand. The rasp of long grass sings out to the sea, swallows weaving
patterns through the hushing stalks in the fading light.

As I look on, a deep, profound scarlet settles onto the horizon, glowing bright for a long, breathless minute before inky black splashes down from between the stars and drowsily swirls the whole sky dark. Peace settles, the weight of it falling with the night.

Deep and serene, I can understand how people find prayer here.

Look at this land: Lindisfarne is a black silhouette inked up against the sundown, a calligraphy print, black on gold.

Bamburgh castle is settled amid the soft, softly-undulating dunes, worn into the landscape down

to the bedrock, a crown on the coastline.

As I sit, I push my hands into the ground. Cool sand slips through my fingers, silken,

working its way up beneath my fingernails, pressing into the lifeline-crease of my palm.

This place is under my skin, sinks deeper down at every visit. The imprint of it is indelible.

Think of me in this place. Wish you were here.

Joint Winner of the Northumbrian Association’s

2009 Young Writer’s Award

Northumbria, All But In Name

by Laurie Atkinson

A kingdom where violence was currency,

Where blood ran, free as wine,

Where a king could live a year or two,

Before butchered by the next in line

Originally in two different parts,

For strength, they did unite,

And what next, you may ask me,

Well, they started to fight!

With Mercia south, the Picts North,

And Britons everywhere,

You'd think they'd just have buried the hatchet,

Given up in despair.

But nay my friend, twas not to be,

This land was always game,

For a century Bamburgh was capital,

Of England, all but in name.

Yet war did not fuel this land,

Its culture was nothing to mock,

From north and south came trade,

To that fortress upon the rock.

St Oswald and Aidan brought faith here,

Those pagan beliefs, they were banned,

And from this ''Cradle of Christianity",

God's word spread throughout the land.

Yet dark days awaited this people,

For when the conquerors looked back,

They realised, the whole kingdom,

Was collapsing behind their back.

Brother fought brother, the kingdom decayed,

Their enemies gorged on their weakness,

A great leader was needed to rally the people,

But, of that, stock was growing ever less.

Next on the scene were the Vikings,

Those axe wielders caused much dismay,

At first they just pillaged the chapels,

Then they started to stay!

For years and years they fought to survive,

Clinging on for dear life,

But even with enemies closing in,

Bamburgh stood amidst the strife.

It was not till the coming of Normans,

That this great kingdom fell,

Though the first blow was at Hastings,

This land was soon gone as well.

Could this kingdom of culture and faith,

Have been engulfed at last

No, it braved many more a century,

This kingdom's time had not past.

For even now it proudly lives on,

It's acquired different fame,

With angels, castles and bridges too,

Northumbria, all but in name.

Highly Commended in

The Northumbrian Association’s Writers’ Awards 2009

The Harbour Master

by Robert H Crosby

Between outstretched piers North and South, the River Tyne and North Sea meet.

As thick fog descends and then obscures ,the Groyne bell, from its windmill stance,

Tolls a mournful resonance.

‘Tis said in Tyneside’s mariners lore, ten miles out to sea, perhaps more,

On a rolling ship in a crow’s nest high, a sou’westered seaman with a watchful eye

Scans the seaboard; kith and kin are nigh.

By day the High and Low Lights’ white towers gleam.

At night a single candle in each homing tower beams.

To navigate a course between, the River Tyne will intervene.

To deviate from this hypnotic hold, on either flank danger will unfold,

Before Groyne and piers erect, the Black Middens, Herd sands – stormy weather will deflect.

By common assent and public donation, in high regard from a caring nation.

Who at Trafalgar stepped into the breach, Admiral Collingwood, Nelson’s hand outheld to reach.

On the Tyne’s North bank at Tynemouth proud, standing aloof, imperious, head touching cloud,

In isolation on a majestic plinth, he surveys the harbour’s turbulent width, ships small and tall

With sail then funnel,

Admiral Collingwood, Harbour Master non-pareil.

Commended in

the 2009 Northumbrian Association’s Writers’ Award

The River Tweed

By Carole Wakenshaw

Emerges as a trickle from the hills

Tumbles over rocks the crevice fills

A vein like to an artery flows

Gathers momentum and stronger grows

Through valley bleak but rich in story

Of folklore and tales of battles gory

From those who settled on its banks

Supplied their needs with grateful thanks

Then those whose life started form that burn

Each year do faithfully return

To battle upstream not defeated

And the cycle of life once more repeated

On the surface calm and peaceful

Underneath the current pulls

Treat with respect the locals tell you

While it swallows up the fools

Castle keep and bridges many

Silently it passes by

Till at last the coast it reaches

Heralded by the seagulls cry.

WRITERS' AWARDS 2009

This year's awards were presented at the Washington Old Hall in Washington Village on the dark, damp evening of 14th October. Inside the Hall, however, the prestigious audience were being warmed , not only by the excellent hospitality of the National Trust , but also by the heartfelt recitations of their own work by highly accomplished writers, extolling the virtues of all things Northumbrian.

As in previous years the standard of submissions for the competition was extremely high and, for the first time, adult entries were invited which resulted in a flood of very high standard submissions.The competition had been publicised in both The Journal and The Culture Magazine as well as electronically to schools and this, gratifyingly, resulted in entries from much further afield than in previous years. This was very gratifying as the Northumbrian Association seeks continually to reach the parts of the region which it hasn't reached before!

There was much agonising on the part of the judges over submissions which were not only diverse in their treatment of their subject but also reflected writers' obvious pride in their region and were expressed with extra-ordinary accomplishment .However, finally the winners were decided upon.

The young Writer's Award was won by Liam Office, 10 years old, of Spring Gardens Primary School for his poem 'My coast' for which he was awarded a laptop computer and his school, a writer-in-residence, courtesy of Gillian Dickinson's Trust which annually supports this award.

Laurie Atkinson,aged 14 years won the 12 to 18 years category with his magnificent, and impressively accurate, romp through Northumbria's history in his poem 'Northumbria, all but in name'. He also received a laptop computer.

The Adult Writer's prize went to Rachael Barnwell for her stirring prose piece, 'Postcard', with its heart-warming reflections on the Northumbrian coast as the sun sets. For this, she received Life Membership of the Northumbrian Association (NA), and a National Trust Family Membership for one year, the latter having been kindly donated by the National Trust.

Such was the high standard of adult work, we decided further to acknowledge the work of Robert Crosby for his poem The Harbourmaster (Highly Commended) which spoke, with moving gravitas, of the worth of Admiral Collingwood and of Carole Wakenshaw's poem which lovingly tracked the course of 'her' river in 'The Tweed' (Commended). Each of these writers received one year's membership of the NA and book tokens. All the winners also received a presentation framed copy of their work and, since the ceremony, have seen their worked published in local newspapers.