Maureen Sutton's writing came about due to attending a WEA course in Lincoln in the mid 1980s, ‘Women’s Role’ led by the tutor Morag McMagill. With Morag McMagill's encouragement, Maureen wrote her first book, ‘We Didn’t Know Aught’, which was shortlisted for the Katherine Briggs memorial prize. She then went on to write ‘A Lincolnshire Calendar’ and a second edition of her first book was changed to ‘We Didn’t Know Owt’. Maureen has compiled material on superstitions and folklore remedies for a possible future publication but switched to writing poetry in 2014.
Maureen won the Poet Laureate competition held in 2015, published by The Lincolnshire Live Poets’ Society. Her work was included in ‘A Selection Of Verse From the “Lincoln’s Great” poetry competition published by the same poetry society. She is the founder member of ‘Pimento Poets’ and has had her work published in ‘Voices from the Steep', ‘Long Time Passing’ and their latest anthology, ‘A View from the Steep'.
Maureen has also read on BBC 4, at universities, poetry festivals, local radio stations and given lectures at the University of Lincoln, Bishop Grosseteste University and the University of Nottingham.
The Lincolnshire Poetry collection is currently available to view on an appointment only basis. Please contact the Special Collections Librarian for more information and to discuss your research requirements.
Search the Special Collection catalogue by an individual poet’s name or using the word poetry.
You can find more information on Maureen and her work on her website:-
What have you bequeathed after 900 years of standing?
How bright you would have been in your early days, a beacon
of light, faith and hope, heaven on earth to pilgrims and locals.
Your tallest steeples were once the highest in Europe before
reaching Russia, taken down least they fell in gales
You have survived; earthquake, wind, fire, and two World Wars
I want to put my hand into your unreachable niches and crannies
feel what has accumulated over the centuries, pull out the debris
study what I find: a hidden mason’s or witch’s mark, a secret message?
I’m gazing at the West Front, at a king marked out by his crossed legs
Are his ears blocked by Sahara sand that left evidence in the new millennium?
Is his nose full of soot from the Industrial Revolution? Does his tongue taste smog
that choked the city’s people when Lincoln was a hive of industry? Does his hair
reek of smoke and volcanic ash does he cry tears of acid rain caused by Pollution?
I want to go back centuries; see you in natural light, eerie in dark months
glowing in sunlight. Now we humour you in artificial light, coloured for
special occasions. We set up cameras to view nested sparrow hawks.
Will the impact of Covid19 from loss of revenue have a more profound
impact than corrosion of centuries of pigeon droppings?