Shortly after the beginning of my Laureateship (July 2017) I attempted a Twin Town Project between my Hometown and Gronau, Germany. By February despite the hard work of Janet King and Sabine Damaske it was still in planning* so I turned my attention to the next Worcestershire Town Droitwich, Twinned with Voiron and discovered I knew the then Chair, Mike Nott. Mike was able to link me up with Madeleine Silvestri who provided some French poet contacts and I took it from there.
By April I matched 4 poets in France and UK into pairs and the poetry exchange began. I had originally planned to take part but we had more local interest than poets. During the Twin Town Project due to unforeseen circumstances there were some concerns over deadlines, so I stepped in.
The poets were asked to write and share a poem about the town, next they were invited to use something from that poem, a line/phrase/word, an essence, idea or image and create a new poem in response.
I wanted the poems to appear in English and French to build the first Worcestershire Poet Laureate Bi-Lingual Poetry Project. One of the poets on the UK team is Portuguese, so I asked him to translate his poetry too.
Although I did well in French at school and used to struggle in France because people thought I was French and used to talk to me at great speed, until I explained and then was able to converse happily in French, it was a long time ago.
I was able to translate communication via tech available for such things, however I decided from experience, that translating poetry was the job for a French speaker. So I asked my good friend Nathalie Brooker to do us the honour. Huge gratitude.
In the age of Brexit, this project and the International links of the Twinning Associations seem all the more poignant.
My thanks go to Mike Nott, Madeleine Silvestri, Nathalie Brooker and all the poets taking part.
*As for the Gronau Project, it may happen Post-Laureateship. Fingers crossed.
Poetry Partners:
Suz Winspear & Pascale Giraud Nina Lewis & Richard Velasquez
Maggie Doyle & Richard Velasquez Miguel Guerreiro Lourenço & Alain Graz
Claire Walker & Rosemary Chazay
Voiron under Vouise
Trails in the woods
Lead to you
Hundred stairs
Rise to the top
in thanks
From spared Plague
They erected
This pious monument
Casting hands of men
Pulled by oxen
The statue shapes
The glory of heaven
Hill Vouise
Overlooks fields
Madonna and child
On sitting snake
Under your soft look
bereaved women
Strung unvarnished
Complaints and rosaries
From your viewpoint
I see my roof
The land of my fathers
Where nuts fall
Pascale Giraud
Voiron sous Vouise
Sentiers dans les bois
Mènent à toi
Centaine d’escaliers
Montent au sommet
En remerciements
De Peste épargnée
Ils ont érigé
Ce pieux monument
Coulée de mains d’hommes
Tirée par les bœufs
La statue façonne
La gloire des cieux
Colline de Vouise
Surplombe les champs
La Vierge et l’enfant
Sur serpent assise
Sous ton doux regard
Femmes endeuillées
Égrènent sans fard
Plaintes et chapelets
De ton belvédère
J’aperçois mon toit
Les terres de mes pères
Où tombent les noix
Pascale Giraud
Life and Hope
Old sadness crawls,
the serpent in the garden;
his poison spreads among the bright spring flowers,
his spiteful bite destroys
the colour of each bloom.
The blue and pink and purple wilt
and turn to dismal brown,
the colour of unhappiness.
The garden starts to die.
But the young girl, the Madonna – she is life!
The child – he is the future, he is hope!
They sit upon the serpent,
her shoe upon his head,
her sharp heel on his skull.
He cannot bite again,
his poison can no longer spread.
The child looks up and sees the sky,
he sees the perfect colour of the blue.
He laughs and claps his hands in sheer delight.
At once, the Serpent dies!
Life and Hope can overcome the sadness,
save the garden, keep the colours bright.
The garden lives, the flowers bloom again,
their colours shining, thanks to Life and Hope.
Suz Winspear
Crystal Dreams
The Romans knew it –
sal, salt, salary
exactly what we need to live,
a small essential thing.
The Romans found a place of salt,
dug deep to pile white treasure onto carts.
However much they took away
the salt remains.
The water is so salty
you can float on it,
sleep on it –
trust it, it will not let you down,
no fear of drowning.
Sleep on it,
on saline crystals,
dreaming crystal dreams,
dreams of the earth,
the slow movement of minerals,
of human history changing.
The buildings in the town record the change,
new houses scrape against the timber frames
of medieval dwellings,
whilst Victorian hotels
remember patients who have known
the healing of the warm salt baths.
The salt, the earth, the town
remembers
in crystal dreams.
Suz Winspear
Pascale Giraud
Pascale Giraud
Voiron, Voiron
In this overheated TER, you blankly, look elsewhere. My eyes meet yours, and soon we announce our arrival at the station of Voiron …
You get up from your seat and mechanically turn a hair behind your ears,
You get out of the train, I do the same,
This city is for me a strange, like you, and I give myself the right to follow you and find you …
Your firm not you come on Jules Ravat Avenue and put it there, stands majestic 150 years of the parish church of St Bruno, a sublime marriage of tufa stone and concrete .How people united in within it, and I find myself dreaming of a sacred union with an angel …
But soon, you fork Senozan streets to revel in Bonnat chocolates, a master chocolatier, working great wines to full-bodied, woody and fruity aromas as your perfume I hume crossing you around shelves full of delicious tablets, to taste.
After a few treats, you go out and your heels echoing on the cobblestones of the street Edgar Kofler, to arrive at the entrance to the Chartreuse cellars, the unique colors of green, yellow or golden. Here, we take the time to feel, to breathe, to travel 400 years of history that we can not retract a backhand.
In this place, the strong smell of the plants gathered in strange and secret places, make me lose track of time, my brain fogs. A veil is formed before my eyes, and e do not hear your escarpins.Mais where are you beautiful Voironnaise? Maybe the restaurant “the dining room” in the company of a handsome lover, or so was the theater of the “Wide Angle” see Delphine de Vigan and Great Sophia, speak and sing of love? I do not know !
Finally I decided to take my TER for another destination, and under the street lights of St Bruno I please myself dreaming of you, thank you for this beautiful afternoon … … and I mechanically put my hair behind my ears.
Richard Velasquez
Voiron, Voiron
Dans ce TER surchauffé, vous avez l’air absent, le regard ailleurs. Mes yeux croisent les vôtres, et bientôt on annonce notre arrivée à la gare de Voiron…
Vous vous levez de votre siège et remettez machinalement une mèche derrière vos oreilles,
Vous sortez du train, j’en fais de même,
Cette ville est pour moi une inconnue, comme vous, et je me donne le droit de vous suivre et de vous découvrir…
De vos pas fermes vous arrivez sur l’avenue Jules Ravat et posée là, s’érige majestueuse depuis 150 ans l’église paroissiale de St Bruno, un mariage sublime de pierres de tuf et de béton,.Combien de personnes se sont unis en son sein, et je me prends à rêver d’une union sacrée avec un ange…
Mais bientôt, vous bifurquez rue Senozan pour vous délecter des chocolats Bonnat, un maître chocolatier, travaillant les grands crus aux arômes corsés, boisés et fruités comme votre parfum que je hume en vous croisant autour des étagères remplies de délicieuses tablettes, à déguster.
Après quelques friandises, vous sortez et vos talons résonnent sur les pavés de la rue Edgar Kofler, pour arriver à l’entrée des caves de la Chartreuse, aux couleurs uniques de vert, jaune ou doré. Ici, on prend le temps de ressentir, de respirer, de voyager, 400 ans d’histoire que l’on ne peux pas escamoter d’un revers de la main.
Dans ce lieu, l’odeur forte des plantes cueillies dans des lieux étranges et secrets, me font perdre la notion du temps, mon cerveau s’embrume. Un voile se forme devant mes yeux, et e n’entends plus vos escarpins.Mais où êtes vous belle Voironnaise ? Peut être au restaurant « la salle à manger » en compagnie d’un bel amoureux, ou alors a la salle de spectacle du « Grand Angle » voir Delphine de Vigan et la Grande Sophie, parler et chanter l’amour ? Je ne sais pas !
Finalement je me décide de prendre mon TER pour une autre destination, et sous les réverbères de St Bruno je me plaît à rêver de vous, merci pour cette belle après midi……et machinalement je remets ma mèche derrière mes oreilles.
Richard Velasquez
What might have been
Briefly, our eyes met and yet
you looked away. The train stops,
we get off and I sense, not see, you
follow me. Passing the church I smile
at newly-weds and friends, believing
love never ends. Further down the
street, chocolate fills my nostrils,
making my mouth water. I still sense
you behind me as I go in to buy a
chocolate treat. You follow, and as I
swallow a velvet smooth sweet, I
walk back into the sunlight.
Turning right, I enter the Chartreuse
Cellars where my eyes are filled with
the richest of greens and yellows. The
guide speaks in English to a group of
tourists and I listen. I am totally
immersed in history, smells, tastes
and want to share this moment. I
turn, you are no longer there.
Maggie Doyle
Testing Encountered Romance
Maybe it was the heat of the carriage
that fuelled my mind when we alighted.
On the train, I watched you from the pages of the book
I had long since stopped reading.
The charge I felt drove my feet to follow
your steps through the town.
I kept my distance, should you turn and see me,
notice everywhere you were, I was too.
You seemed to know these streets,
walked past sites head down,
halo sun caressing your crown
with summer picked glory.
Sometimes I lingered at a window,
stared at the display and thought of angels,
other times I dared to follow you through a door,
taking in scents of a town I know well.
I got close enough to taste your aroma
before I stopped myself.
I caught your perfume, breathed it in,
carried it back to the station,
My carriage was empty
and I disappeared
into printed pages, allowing thoughts
of our close encounter to slip from my mind.
Corbett’s English Chateau
John Corbett’s fortune lay beneath his feet,
minerals washed from rocks
created brine, allowed him to harvest
life-sustaining salt.
Wealth brought opportunities,
travel to foreign lands,
France cast her magic,
sent him Hannah on a summer’s night.
New lovers walked the English hills, married.
Six children later, France still loudly called
her name, beckoned her home, she resisted
as the marriage rocked and love disappeared.
John’s money bought the architects, the land,
creation of a chateau to please her, abate
her homesickness, recapture the elegance
of all she had left behind – it was not enough.
Her chateau still stands in magnificence,
roots firmly planted in green fields,
spires raised to an English sky,
the Salt King’s worthless gift.
Maggie Doyle
Sacred Heart
Eight deer drink water
beneath the feet of Jesus,
whose arms are extended in welcome.
Curving around the dome of the Altar,
under the apse, a golden sky
of tesserae, Venetian glass.
This mosaic I spent my
childhood lost in,
head held high in prayer.
Eyes open after Amen,
I saw the palm trees, the flowers.
Did not recognise paradise.
Blind to his Holy wounds,
his pierced, Sacred Heart.
My heart, offered words to God
whilst eyes, transfixed on gold.
Nina Lewis
© Sacred Heart and Saint Catherine of Alexandria, Droitwich 2018
Find the Way
In this sanctuary, where everything is calm and sweet, I see through this Venetian glass my life,
My lost loves and my lost loves,
What does this energy know?
Why do not you help me Jesus?
To find the way from the end of the end of the world!
I’ll listen to you,
I’m going to leave my side sores,
I will be in love again,
I’ll lose my head,
I’m going to evaporate,
let me sleep peacefully, without fear!
And you find your arms wide open and your heart light,
In this sacred heart where all is love and joy.
Richard Velasquez
Trouver le Chemin
Dans ce sanctuaire, ou tout est calme et doux, je vois au travers de ce verre vénitien ma vie,
Mes amours perdues et mes amours retrouvés,
Qu’est ce que sait que cette énergie là ?
Pourquoi ne m’aides tu pas Jésus ?
A trouver le chemin du bout du bout du monde !
Je vais t’écouter ,
Je vais laisser mes blessures de côtés,
Je vais être à nouveau amoureux,
Je vais perdre la tête,
Je vais m’évaporer,
me laisser dormir tranquille, sans peur !
Et te retrouver les bras grand ouvert et le cœur léger,
Dans ce sacré-cœur ou tout est amour et joie.
Richard Velasquez
Nostalgia
There is a sweetness on my face
like a silk veil
when by this evening train, I come home.
By far, the Chartreuse well wise
flames in the sunset.
I am at my house, in return for bohemian without any other wonder than to be well.
I cannot say why already by far,
the memory of my country of baptism
back from the depths of me and makes me dizzy.
Is there a star like for mages
to tell me the way?
Everything is soft colour and delicate message.
My massif of the Great Sure disguises itself
in carmine red on its top
and is painted emerald in the abundance of pastures.
On the hill of Vouise,
the statue of the Virgin Mary whispers
sweet prayers for the city.
Through the window of the compartment, at the pace of the omnibus
I see these little things from my land
revealed in welcome necklace.
Tiles against some mossy stones,
a rammed farm lost in a meadow
a demolished wall, hidden behind a tuft of brambles
the flaming yellow of forsythias announcing the end of winter
a village church, Chabon can be, or Reaumont
a priest’s garden where abundance germinates …
I’m ten years old in this trip in the past,
and everything stuns me in the meanders of my childhood
I walk in the paths of my Criel,
I go down to Saint Bruno church.
I prolong my equipped to the old lanes,
Portelle Street, Carabonneau Street
frantic race of a rascal
in short pants and truant.
It was yesterday, my grandfather and his horses,
his quiet cart crossing Voiron
and me at his side, triumphing like a Caesar in Rome of memory.
My head is in the clouds that colour this glowing twilight.
They revive all my thoughts that surrender in me in ultimate restore.
My memories are sweet like glycine and forget-me-not
Who perfume the air of the evening where on the platform of station, I find my country.
Alain Graz
Nostalgie
“Il y a une douceur posée sur mon visage
tel un voile de soie
quand par ce train du soir, je reviens chez moi.
Déjà de loin, la Chartreuse bien sage
flamboie dans le coucher du soleil.
Je suis à ma maison, en retour de bohème sans aucune autre merveille que d’y être bien.
Je ne saurais dire pourquoi déjà de loin,
le souvenir de mon pays de baptême
remonte du plus profond de moi et me donne le vertige.
Y a-t-il une étoile comme pour les mages
pour me dire le chemin?
Tout est couleur tendre et délicat message.
Mon massif de le Grande Sure se déguise
En rouge carmin sur son sommet
et se peint d’émeraude dans l’abondance des pâtures.
Sur la colline de Vouise,
La statue de la vierge Marie murmure
de douces prières pour la cité.
Par la fenêtre du compartiment, à l’allure de l’omnibus
J’aperçois ces petits riens de ma terre
révélés en collier de bienvenue.
Des tuiles posées contre quelques pierres moussues,
Une ferme en pisé perdue dans un pré
Un mur démoli, caché derrière une touffe de ronces
Le jaune flamboyant des forsythias qui annonce la fin de l’hiver
Une église de village, Chabon peut être, ou Reaumont
un jardin de curé où germe l’abondance…
J’ai dix ans dans ce voyage dans le passé,
et tout m’étourdit dans les méandres de mon enfance
Je me balade dans les sentiers de mon Criel,
Je descends vers l’église Saint Bruno.
Je prolonge mon équipée vers les vieilles ruelles,
Rue de la Portelle, rue Carabonneau
course effrénée d’un garnement
en culotte courte et en école buissonnière.
C’était hier, mon grand-père et ses chevaux,
sa charrette tranquille qui traversait Voiron
et moi à ses côtés, triomphant comme un César en Rome de mémoire.
Ma tête est dans les nuages qui colorent ce crépuscule embrasé.
Ils ravivent toutes mes pensées qui s’abandonnent en moi en ultime reposoir.
Mes souvenirs sont doux comme la glycine et le myosotis
Qui embaument l’air du soir où sur le quai de gare, je retrouve mon pays.”
Alain Graz
FIRST
There is a sweetness on my face,
left there by kisses I could never forget.
I trace it with my fingers, lingering over
the still wet brand on my lips, freshly
coated in love and lipstick.
My throat tightens and my eyes glisten,
the lights of late night lampposts dancing
on tears that would never fall. It felt like
allergies, clawing at my heart, whispering
that those lips were poison.
But, seeing her eyelids slowly opening
after they had shut with the gentle pluck
of a kiss from my lips—made me crave more
of that stomach ache, of that struggle to
breathe, mouth wide open, more of her.
I felt like I could stare in silence right into her
eyes, the blue failing to disguise her falling
for me just as hard as I was with her and I
stirred, the Dutch courage inside, to break the
awkward quiet with another kiss.
Miguel Guerreiro Lourenço
FIRST
Existe uma doçura na minha cara,
deixada lá por beijos que nunca esquecerei.
Delinho-a com os meus dedos, ficando por cima
da marca ainda molhada nos meus lábios,
com uma camada fresca de amor e báton.
A minha garganta apertada e os meus olhos brilham,
as luzes de noites tardias dançando
em lágrimas que nunca cairam. Pareciam-me
alergias, escravatando ao meu coração, sussurando
que aqueles lábios seriam veneno.
Mas, vendo as suas pálpebras abrindo devagar
depois de se fecharem após a gentil colheita
de um beijo nos meus lábios–deixou me a querer mais
daquele dor no estômago, daquele ansiedade por
respirar, boca aberta, a querer mais dela.
Senti que poderia olhar nos seus olhos em
silêncio, o seu azul a não conseguir esconder
que se está a apaixonar por mim tão fortemente quanto
eu por ela e eu agito, aquele coragem alcoolizada dentro
de mim para quebrar o sossego com outro beijo.
Miguel Guerreiro Lourenço
St. Augustine’s
Under a sky painted in every shade
of grey and sunless seas, these
walls stood in Dodderhill long before
me. Many are grateful, even if
your stone has been darkened,
by time and elemental children.
The pitch smeared, from crest
to waist—a waste of beautiful walls.
In your halls, warmth remained,
contained and bathed with, like light
shining through the colours of who
supported a dying man. When asked,
where was love and how did it feel,
I could only say that even when
wrinkled and defaced by them…
others stayed and cared.
And in you spread the word;
that sacrifice inspires more than
martyrdom—a testament to time’s will
to tear down what we built up.
Miguel Guerreiro Lourenço
Portuguese
Debaixo de um céu pintado de todos os tons
de cinzento e mares debaixo de nuvens, estas
paredes estavam de pé em Dodderhill muito antes
de mim. Muitos estão agradecidos, mesmo que
a tua pedra esteja sido escurecida
pelo tempo e crianças elementais.
O óleo espalhado, de crista
à cintura—um desperdício de paredes lindas.
No teu interior, o calor ficou,
encarcerado e disfrutado, como luz
brilhando pelas cores que ajudaram
um homem moribundo. Quando me perguntaram,
onde estava o amor e como é que me senti,
só pude dizer que mesmo depois
de se enrugar e de desfigurado por todos eles…
houve quem tenha ficado.
Dentro ti espalharam a palavra;
Que sacrifício inspira muito mais que
o martírio—um testamento à força do tempo
que desmantela o que construímos.
Miguel Guerreiro Lourenço
Walk this morning
Everything is paused in this morning of fog.
The haggard sky is lost in this grey halo
like an overflowing river.
The bell tower of the church as lighthouses at sea traces a path of recall.
it floods however the uncertain streets
and fills the pavements and the walls with its flow.
He walks quietly on a truant.
Only my steps and my words
in foghorns in this Toussaint time
echoing in this silence of mourning
bring him back as a distracted child to his birth-bed.
Alain Graz
© Alain Graz
Balade ce matin
Tout est en pause dans ce matin de brouillard.
Le ciel hagard se perd dans ce halo gris
tel un fleuve en débordement.
Le clocher de l’eglise comme des phares en mer lui trace un chemin de rappel.
il inonde cependant les rues incertaines
et emplit de son flot repu les pavés et les murs .
Il se balade tranquille en escapade buissonnière.
Seuls mon pas et mes paroles
en cornes de brume dans ce temps de Toussaint
résonnant en écho dans ce silence de deuil
le ramènent en enfant distrait vers son lit de naissance.
Alain Graz
My Town
I’m inhabitant, in a small town of France
The name of the city, Voiron Voiron Voiron
Situate in Isere, Important department
Region Rhônes Alpes Auvergne, it’s a so big district
In Voiron you could find, like among other things
Cinema school shop church, sports, town hall, theatre
There are many events, and races, and festivals
There are many events, by culture sports dance
There are many events, for children or adults
You have the choice German, or Italians movies
« Books to you » « Livres à vous », to celebrate writers
The Creators biennale, books in the mediatheque
The carnival parade, with the high Giraffe
The musicians of Jazz, music festivities
Don’t forget the short film, or the folkloric dance
The fear of Saint Martin, the Mainssieux museum
L’international cirque, the twenty one of June
The people in the streets, also the musicians
The conservatory, of the music and dance
The fourteen on July, the fire on the church
The sports competition, like the run through the town,
Or cycling in the streets, Badminton championship
And basketball team, championship of sport dance
The cyclotourism, the Brunerie Campus
Please now walk in the streets, visit, open yours eyes
The theatre Grand Angle and cinema PASSrL
A church built like a cathedral, and the great Bonnat Shop
The green chartreuse liquor, yellow Chartreuse liquor
Oh, what is the legend, about the statue up ?
The notre Dame en Vouise, It speaks about the Flood
Boulevard of Republic, the Square Dechandol
The bus railway station, place Pierre Semard
Church Saint Bruno, Saint Pierre, the Du Moulinet street
Pierre Mary Curie school, Brunerie, Patinière
The police station, and the police force
And l’ Hôtel des impôts, and « les dauphins du parc »
Rosemary Chazay
© Office de tourisme
It Speaks About the Flood
In the dark minutes, I wander outside
my walls, where memory
is a train of village lanes.
I like it like this, the sleeping
hours undone.
Here, water’s voice carries
to me, a whisper in a night sky.
It tells of its uprising, centuries old,
when it swallowed the Green, the roads,
the homes and all their people.
I feel its story, this rage
built by other’s careless lives;
the surge to say
this is how strong I am.
The water and I are kin.
Now, receded to a stream –
this little brook, threading
past the names of streets.
The hush of it.
Always biding its time.
Claire Walker
Extraction
The reservoirs do our bidding.
Brine rises to the surface –
summoned by the sky, the gods, who knows –
it coats our skin, our hearts.
We hold it over our flames.
Salt spits, creeps like a vine
across the map of this town.
The strength of sea water evaporates
in comparison with us.
Here, we can stride against tides:
this spread of wealth for our busy hands,
it keeps us on our feet.
Claire Walker
© Visitdroitwichspa Brine Pumping Station, Gurney’s Lane, Droitwich Spa
Brotherhood
Summoned by the sky, the gods, who knows
The brotherhood of man, is counting on us
The brotherhood of man observes us, and watching over us,
It expects for our awakening, our sudden burst of dignity
Who knows when this surge will be activate,
This opportunity, this helping hand to the other one
This great moment for the solidarity, or wide opening
This weave of the difference, to welcome the unknown
Our planet is suffering, also the people who live on
It’s time to stop all, time to breath, time to live
It’s the time for the belief in the humans, of the individuals
It’s time for the imaginary to access of happiness
All the communities will bind together, they will got confidence
They will be ready to love, and share their love
Share their kindness, their respect, their compassion
They will find again their capacity of empathy and resilience
Rosemary Chazay
Convoqué par le ciel, les dieux, qui sait
La fraternité de hommes compte sur nous
Elle nous observe, elle veille sur nous,
Elle attend notre réveil, notre sursaut de dignité
Qui sait quand elle se déclenchera cette déferlante
Cette opportunité, cette main tendue vers l’autre,
Ce grand moment de solidarité, d’ouverture
Cette vague de différence, pour accueillir des inconnus
Notre planète souffre, ainsi que les hommes qui l’habitent
Il est temps, de tout arrêter, de respirer, de vivre
C’est le temps de la croyance en l’individu
C’est le temps de l’imaginaire, pour l’accession au bonheur
Toutes les communautés seront soudées, auront confiance
Elles seront prêtes à aimer, à partager leur amour
A partager leur gentillesse, leur considération, leur compassion
Elles retrouveront leur capacité d’empathie et de résilience
Rosemary Chazay
Poet Laureate 
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