Alan Dawson, the man behind the #madeinmansfield poetry project, is aiming to help people showcase all that is positive about the area.

This week he features two more poems.

A common theme that has run through (the project) is that of individuals writing poetry for the first time – and usually for a reason more than just to write.

One of the authors featured this week is Marie Wragg, who said: “I have no experience of writing poetry whatsoever, but these are my thoughts about ‘My Town’.”

Alan added: “Marie is a well-known figure in the Mansfield drama scene and wrote My Town as a plea to the townspeople to pull together and help to uplift the town. Marie is a positive person – I have worked with her on a couple of occasions and she is industrious and reliable – and she is personable and talks a lot!”

My town

My Town
Folk like to bash it down
Yet it’s where I see my friends and people who care
I see talent that leaves, thinking other places are better
The ones who stay are those who dare
To dream and know we’ll rise again, learn new skills to help make good
For resurrection is in our blood
Yes, the struggle is real, industries now lost
Empty shops, charity shops
Look at our history, what we created
Ancestors will say, work, save the day
It’s not the town that should be berated
A town is a place, we create it
My town
Folk like to bash it down
Don’t, make it good
For it really is all up to us
Take a closer look, look up and not rush through
There’s history in the buildings
If the walls could speak they’d tell of
Don’t bash it down
For what it really is, is a jewel in the crown

© by Marie Wragg

Anthony Cartwright is a creative writer and is experienced in different forms of written expression, along with poetry. He is also a well-known figure in the Mansfield drama scene – I have worked with Anthony also. He effectively uses irony in his work and his featured piece, Sheepwash Lane, Late Evening, could be seen as negative, as he describes the decay and the litter-ridden streets.

However, if you stay with the piece, there is a definite feeling of belonging, you can almost hear the writer exhale with relief as everything he remembers is still in place, how he left it – he is home.

Sheepwash Lane, Late Evening. 

Telegraph poles hover over stunted lampposts.
Ahead, circular pools of light guard the street like sentries,
fully trained and stationed with similar military precision.
My heart lifts at the sight, the familiar sight, of this now lifeless space;
Having turned left at the pedestrian refuge I, once more, gaze upon,
My litter ridden street, pavements stained blue with trampled berries.

Decayed flowers strung on a lamp post, a child’s
anguish for a father who breathed his last on this spot
Fallen teardrops morphing into fallen petals as memory fades. 
Beyond this, parked cars line only the left side of the street.
On the right two T junctions lead towards the now closed day centre
where old friends while away their years playing cribbage, drinking tea. 

I’m home.