A former student at HSDC has recently had a poem published in a prestigious anthology.
Grace Jones-Parker studied A Levels in History, Philosophy, Religion & Ethics and Classical Civilisation at HSDC Havant from 2023-25, as well as undertaking an Extended Project Qualification (EPQ). Alongside her studies at Havant, Grace honed her poetry writing skills, culminating in the completion of her poem ‘The Dreamscape’.
When asked about what inspired her love of writing and poetry, Grace said:
“I’ve always loved writing, but it’s only in recent years that I’ve focused on producing poetry. I bought my first poetry book in 2021, but mostly just field notebooks with short pieces. When I joined the College’s Online Creative Writing Group and began entering competitions, I committed myself to poetry and developed my own style after discovering some of my favourite poets, like Mary Oliver and Charles Bukowski.”
‘The Dreamscape’ follows the story of the speaker, who appears to be trapped in an unsettling dream. Speaking about the poem, Grace said:
“In The Dreamscape, I wanted to capture that creepy and disorienting atmosphere that you get in nightmares. I focused on creating an atmosphere that felt tense and unnerving, with no explanation or resolution, only an increasing sense of unravelling and helplessness.”
Whilst at Havant, Grace submitted ‘The Dreamscape’ for consideration in the Young Writer’s 2024/25 national poetry competition. This year, the YW competition was titled ‘Empowered’, and encouraged young people aged 11-18 to write about something they are passionate about.
Grace’s poem was selected for publication in the anthology, ‘Empowered – Journey Through Ink’, a great honour for any aspiring poet. Not only was ‘The Dreamscape’ published, but it was the overall runner-up of the competition out of thousands of nationwide submissions!
Pete Budd, Havant’s Assistant Principal for Curriculum, was incredibly proud of Grace’s achievement, stating:
“Grace’s poem is a powerful piece of writing; intense, moving and superbly well-written, it truly deserved the national recognition it received. We have a thriving enrichment programme of creative writing enrichment at HSDC, and Grace’s poetry continues a strong tradition of writing success.”
Since leaving Havant, Grace has started an undergraduate degree in Philosophy at the University of Leeds, but has continued to explore her love of poetry within a creative writing module. When asked if she had any advice for the next generation of writers, Grace said:
“Allow yourself both time and grace. Developing a poetic voice is a gradual effort, and you cannot expect your first poem to be a masterpiece. Start small and don’t overthink it, and once you have built confidence in yourself and gotten used to the flow of writing, everything will come much easier to you.”
Everybody at HSDC is very proud of Grace, and can’t wait to see what she gets up to in the future.
You can read ‘The Dreamscape’ below:
He dreams.
Dreams of forms–abstract,
people that aren’t people,
clouds of black smoke twisting,
hissing under skin, stretched and distorted.
Others drift along the darkened landscape,
listless, apathetic, restless,
seeking a feeling unnamed,
something they can’t even know is gone.
He scrubs his eyes with a barely-there fist,
stumbling towards some light,
but finds only static, a blur,
where the horizon should be.
There are no Legos here, no childish comforts,
no doll houses or plastic telephones,
just endless hallways,
perpendicular paths,
black and white tiles flickering faster than he
can step.
A way-station–
frigid terror, cold fury, compliant indifference.
A purgatory, the in-between of in-betweens,
the epitome of the middle ground.
No shadows, for it is shadow.
No light, for it is light.
A labyrinth of turpentine and bleach,
no footsteps, just echoes
of echoes, whispering words that cannot be
understood.
He catches a glimpse in the wall’s sheen,
sees only a muddled absence
where his face is meant to be.
Maybe, he thinks, trapped between panic and
cold,
cold indifference,
maybe this is his fate, his becoming.
Numbness settles on him like a wet blanket.
He can barely turn away,
eyes fixed on the void
as if it were a TV screen.
And in some twisted nightmare sequence,
the world splits at the seams,
stitches tearing, scars opening,
like gates into hell.
Swallowing all good, all bad,
hollowed out, bleeding with excess,
slipping down the slick tongue of oblivion,
and into sleep’s gaping maw.
