Turner Contemporary Margate Sky – Poet-in-Residence

The view from Turner Contemporary’s windows looks out over the horizon and often frames mesmerizing sunsets.  Whilst the Covid 19 crisis closed the gallery, they installed a live camera so that audiences around the world could be inspired by the sea and sky, wherever they are. The live feed ran 24 hours a day for one week.

Dan Thompson – Webcam Poet In Residence

Dan Thompson was a virtual poet-in-residence, writing short sketch poems across the week with a final poem produced in response to the Live Feed. You can read Turner Contemporary Webcam Poems (pdf).

Dan Thompson is a Kent writer. He was Poet-in-Residence for Lincoln’s digital arts festival Frequency in 2019, and has previously been Poet-in-Residence for the Worthing Herald. He believes this is the first time a webcam has had its own Poet-in-Residence. Last year, he published Your England, a collection of poems about people and places in England which tell a history of the country. For ten years he ran the Roundabout poetry events in Worthing, and for three years hosted Landing Place at Turner Contemporary.

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A History of a View, 1720-2020

10 July, 2020
This view is too wide and deep for pixels. You need to come, be still here, where Turner and Vaughan Williams and TS Eliot stopped. Here, this exact geographical point is where they found the borders, lines, delineation to frame England. This view.

8 October, 2017, 02:42
The Officer of the Watch
lets the Master sleep,
forgetting a rising tide lifts all ships,
and if your anchor chain isn’t long enough,
with a north west wind, you drift ashore.

11 January, 1978
The King Tide is predictable,
and so is the fact that an old pier,
unloved, will always fall into the sea.

30 May, 1940
Margate is pretty dead.
Ten tin hats, and
a box of cigarettes,
and the Lifeboat crew
launch down the slip,
to see if Dunkirk
is any different.

4 August, 1914
It felt odd, to stop,
on the way to the Pole,
to walk along
a Pleasure-Pier
as war broke out,
past Palmist and
camera obscura,
to find out if we
would have to fight –
but ‘proceed’,
Winston said,
so we sailed
south, away from war.

29 November, 1897
Gone, all gone –
the Palace is out to sea,
the sprung ballroom floor,
Switchback Railway,
a thousand shell trinkets
and porcelain novelties –
the mer-folk have them.

1 January, 1877
The wind brings a ship
through the deck, neatly
separating pierhead
from land.
Fifty people spend a day
picnicking unexpectedly
at sea.

1853
Eugenius has a plan, paces
the foreshore at low tide.
Will screw iron monoliths
into chalk. This is No.1 in
a chain, England’s stop line,
keeping faerie folk away.

March, 1834
Come back to bed, I say,
and draw me:
but downstairs,
he has his easel,
and he loves
the sea and sky
more than me.
Or, at least as much.

1824
We raised a petition,
wrote letters to the
Isle of Thanet Times,
objected to the
Pier Co’s plans
but they won,
and ruined our view.

Well, for
the next 150 years.

14 January, 1808
The sea is in the kitchens
of Cold Harbour houses,
crabs in the cooking-pots,
seaweed broth for supper.

1785
A boy, from the School up Love Lane,
sits here, draws clouds. Again and again.

10 July, 1720
There is not one gentleman
who still lives on this island.
The harbour has silted up.
The Masters of Ships left,
their money gone to London.
All that’s left is a view – and
there’s no profit in that.

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