“HARLOW Circle of Poetry” will be just two years old this year but has already established itself as a well-known and well-liked part of the local community.

The group is led by local poet, Carmella de Keyser, who told us “We foster an encouraging, nurturing, inclusive space where poets and poetry enthusiasts unite, share and thrive, free from competition. We discuss a poem or two for the first hour and then perform or read our own poetry to others during the second hour. We are all different, some of us are here to listen and others to write, read and share, there is no pressure either way. We give each other encouraging feedback and then see what meaningful conversations emerge.”

One such conversation was sparked at the November monthly gathering by local man, Howard Beaumont, who shared his poem “A Lack of Privacy” – which reminisces on life in Harlow in years gone by.

Howard was born in Chippingfield in the 1960’s, and he recently shared his reflections with us, on Harlow in the early days when the new town was, literally, growing up alongside its residents.

Howard told us “My Parents moved to Harlow in the 1950’s. My father from Stirling in ‘54, my mother from North London in ’56. My mother’s father helped build many of the first houses here, including, apparently, the one my family have lived in here in Chippingfield for over 65 years!

My parents first moved in together after they were married and got a council flat in The Downs. After my brother was born they moved to a 3-bed council house in Chippingfield, where I was born in ‘62. My father worked for STC in Riverway. My mother changed jobs a lot, Rumney’s Newsagents for many years and also the Dental practitioners in Old Harlow. My brother and I attended Fawbert and Barnards primary school, which was a fantastic school under Mr Buckley. It had an outdoor swimming pool which was constructed by local parents. We then went on to Mark Hall Comprehensive. I went on to the Harlow Technical College and then to the Harlow Industrial Training Centre sponsored by STL (now KAO business park}.

When I got married in the early 1980’s I bought a 3-bedroom house in Newport, Essex for the same price a 2-bedroom flat would have cost in Harlow. From there I moved on to Northampton, Ipswich, and latterly Macclesfield where I lived for 30 years until my father, aged 93, needed a carer.

Coming back to Harlow has been very hard, sleeping in the bedroom I was born in for example, but nevertheless worthwhile. The changes I’ve seen in Harlow are immense. some good, some bad. I was shocked to see the dereliction of The High, near the Market Square and the old Odeon. It’s a disgrace, Frederick Gibberd must be turning in his grave.

Newhall on the other hand is one of the most environmentally considerate socially orientated developments I have seen in years. There are lots of young families there, enjoying the open spaces. I used to play on the farmland there before it was built on, where agricultural waste in the streams and shooting in the woods restricted access. Trust me it is an improvement. It makes me wonder why we can’t have more of these kinds of new developments in England.”

We asked Howard about the importance of poetry in his life, and he told us “Poetry has meant many things to me over the last 30 years. At first it was a cathartic way to order my thoughts. It brought into focus what I cared about and why? Later, through a group, similar to Harlow Circle of Poetry, it led me to other people’s poetry, debate, open mic nights and stand up. Poetry for me has been a life, a death and everything in between. It is for everyone because everyone has written it. Every subject, every society, everywhere. It can make you laugh, cry, get angry and bring you peace. At its best it can bring people closer together, like a prayer for peace, I have seen it happen, but hey! don’t take my word for it. Try it for yourself.”

Harlow Circle of Poetry meets on the last Thursday of each month between 17:00 and 19:00 at The Geek Retreat in The Harvey Centre.

More information can be found on Facebook (Harlow Circle of Poetry) and Bluesky (@harlowstanza.bsky.social) or by emailing Carmella at [email protected].

Here is Howard Beaumont’s poem.

A Lack of Privacy

We knew our neighbours on our estate,
Auntie Lil and Uncle George,
Frank and Gwen,
The Ashton’s,
End of terrace were the Hard’s.
Opposite, the Palmer’s, Auntie Moira, Uncle Norm,
Peggy and Nobby Noble and on the corner were the Ward’s.
Casey’s, Ridge’s, Andrews, Woolcott’s, Thurgood’s, Zack’s, and Foster’s,
Amos, Munns, and Tredigan’s, Arrol’s, Smith’s and others
We knew them all on our estate more names than I can mention,
One hundred and sixteen families held together by chain link fencing.

Your car, if you had one, was parked at a communal garage lot.
You walked passed all of your neighbours as you walked down to the shops.
They said hello, good morning, quite often you’d stop and chat,
You’d offer to get stuff from the shops,
drop it off on your way back.
Doors were always open.
Kids just came and went.
Washing was taken in if it rained.
Sugar was borrowed and lent.
The elderly were visited.
The sick were washed and fed.
Dogs were walked.
Babies sat.
Now it’s gone but still in my head.

First the Council’s Right to Buy separated the rich from the poor.
People took pride in their own house but forgot the shambles next door.

Then came the larch lap, the walls and the trees
Privacy the word of the day,
The neighbour you talked too, talked no more with a bloody Great Wall in the way.
Then went the jobs for locals and homes were traded for cash,
And people with no sense of neighbourhood moved in upon our patch,
They built more walls,
They dug up lawns and parked where children once played,
Came home from work,
Went in their house and in their house they stayed.

Thirty years on and the kindness is gone
And people don’t go past their drive,
Except for a few survivors who still keep the spirit alive.
Another ten years and they’ll all be gone and I won’t go back anymore.
But that lack of privacy will live on in me as I welcome you in through my door.