Category Archives: poetry

Abingdon, Oh Abingdon

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Thankyou to Margaret for this poem about Abingdon. In October I will produce a book called ‘Ten poems about Abingdon’ which will include ten poems selected and edited by a local published poet.
Lidl
Abingdon, Oh Abingdon, what a lovely place to live,
You’ve seen so much and have so much to give.
You started as a crossing across the river Thames,
then the monks came along and chose the spot
to build their abbey, which gave the folk a lot
of work and commerce, stability and peace,
till Henry declared that all abbeys should cease.
Chaos ensued, but in their place
Churches were built, the Market came, life went on apace.
Streets and alleyways were erected up and down
till Abingdon was declared the County town.

The iconic County Hall was erected too
and things all around were bursting with life.
Factories were built with jobs for all comers
in winter, spring and through all summers.
Wars were fought, camps were built
with local men called to fight to the hilt,
then after the war Morris cars were built.

The river flowed on, pleasure boats were seen
and Abingdon people were always keen
to catch the Thrown Buns, a novel way we note
to celebrate events. And now when another
peril threatens our lives we all work together.
We help each other with shopping and chores
as most of us cannot go outdoors.
So live on, Abingdon, your history shows
that you survived all these years
and will continue to do so, despite all our fears.

Margaret Langsford

Abingdon (acrostic poem for our town)

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Poems about Abingdon
Alone I wander by the Thames
beside the Anchor inn and
in the space between deep
night and effervescent break of day
ghostly and grey
dawn the shadows of Brick Alley
over the broad flags
next to St Helen’s church.

Across the river
birdsong greets the dawn,
indifferent to my solitude,
needing only small
glimmerings of light
dappling pearlescent water to
orchestrate yet one more time
new life in Abingdon.

Paul Sheppy
2021

Thanks to Paul for an entry. A book of poems with pictures will be produced in the autumn – to be called Ten Poems About Abingdon.

10 poems about Abingdon

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I have a proposal for the 2021 blog project. I will post, on this blog, poems in the category ‘Poems About Abingdon‘. They could be written by you or they could be poems we can get the rights to publish. You have until end of September. Some will go into a book of poems and pictures called ‘Ten Poems About Abingdon‘. All rights will remain with the author. Send poems to backstreet60@gmail.com .

Here to start us off is a verse I have been trying to write …

Poems about Abingdon
Walking the 1556 Abingdon Bounds

Eighty people and two mutts
meet as planned on New Years’ Day.
The Town Crier swings his bell and cries,
‘God Bless the Queen! Hear ye!’ ‘Hear ye!’

The leader welcomes ‘one and all’
to walk the ancient Borough Bounds
where Mayor and Council once paraded
to know by heart their chartered lands.

Refashioned as a two hour walk
to help us trim our growing waists –
filled with turkey, bowls of nuts,
selection boxes, After Eights.

Not long until we’re back at work –
down East St Helen Street we walk.
Some saunter, chatting, in the road
and regroup at St Helen’s Wharf.

The leader reads the Tudor route
and then a modern commentary
‘… from aforesaid Helen’s Bridge …
to the new promontory …’

Herding idlers to the Park
The Town Crier rings and hails ‘The Queen!’
Albert’s statue stands aloft –
taken young – what he has seen!

We come across a boundary stone
warn smooth and without date or number.
A New Year cry again resounds
And wakes the sleepers from their slumber.

The town has broken all its bounds
with modern houses, gardens, walls.
The boundary stones are overgrown,
The River Thames floods and sprawls.

By the weir we cross the River
and note a boundary stone marked ‘A’ –
used as a latch – for a gate,
‘What a shame!’ the people say.
Poems about Abingdon

Abingdon Poets (1) – Willoughby Weaving, Ian Pindar, Andrew Jamison, Phanuel Bacon

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Abingdon Poets
Willoughby Weaving attended Abingdon School, and Pembroke College. He was a teacher in Ireland and signed up at the start of the first World War to serve in the Royal Irish Rifles. After being invalided out, he returned to teach and became a prolific poet. He is now mostly forgotten apart from some war poems – revisited during the recent 100 year remembrance of the first world war). Here is a poem written in 1920

Before Thunder

In one vast cloud the skies were clad;
There was a silence worse than sound
Discordant, such as makes men mad
In muffled dungeons underground,
When first they sing, and scream to save
Their deafening reason from the grave,
That living grave of worse than death.
There was no stir of lightest breath
But hot stagnation in the air
Like a suspended horror there
Poised at its utmost by the stress
Of unimaginable excess
Birth-bound. Then suddenly at last
The lightening like a lancet passed,
And all that fierce and maddening strain
Fell ruining with routs of rain.

Ian Pindar first came to public attention after the National Poetry Competition in 2009. You can read his successful poem, Mrs Beltinska in the Bath, at https://poems.poetrysociety.org.uk/poets/ian-pindar/. Ian was interviewed by the Oxford Mail and said “The reason I love poetry is because it is ambiguous – there is mystery there.”

Here Ian is reading one of his poems from a collection called Constellations

Andrew Jamison is another contemporary poet who works as a teacher at Abingdon School. He comes from Ireland.  Here is Andrew reading September

Abingdon Poets
Another poet who attended Abingdon School was Phanuel Bacon. He became a clergyman in the mid 1700s. One of his poems can be found on a very specific blog called The snipe in Literature where you can read the full poem.

The Snipe

I’ll tell you a story, a story that’s true,
A story that’s dismal, and comical too;
It is of a Friar, who some people think,
Tho’ as sweet as a nut, might have dy’d of a stink.
Derry down, down, hey derry down.

This Friar would often go out with his gun,
And tho’ no great marksman, he thought himself one;
For tho’ he for ever was wont to miss aim,
Still something but never himself was to blame.
Derry down, &c.

It happen’d young Peter, a friend of the Friar’s,
With legs arm’d with leather, for fear of the briars,
Went out with him once, tho’ it signifies not
Where he hired his gun, or who tick’d for the shot.
Derry down, &c.

Away these two trudg’d it, o’er hills and o’er dales,
They popt at the partridges, frighten’d the quails;
But, to tell you the truth, no great mischief was done,
Save spoiling the proverb, as sure as a gun.
Derry down, &c.

But at length a poor Snipe flew direct in the way,
In open defiance, as if he would say,
“If only the Friar and Peter are there,
I’ll fly where I list, there’s no reason to fear.”
Derry down, &c.

…

All rights reserved for the two poems quoted.