Prize Winners

2007 Free Verse

2007 Rhyming Poetry

"We are now approaching ....    by John Godfrey


... Bristol Parkway, where we shall arrive shortly...”

The railway here cuts contours
and, in the sixty seconds that it takes a slowing train
to get from the cutting’s end at Penny Bridge
to the abrupt rise of Stoke Lane,
a segment of almost-familiar landscape swivels below,

reveals a place where becoming older
wasn’t some kind of problem to be faced, more like
an edge-of-seat adventure, an Eagle comic-strip
or a radio serial in which we always longed
to know what would happen next.

For one minute the changing angles
of stone walls, hedges, slopes and valleys to the south
alternately display and conceal
lanes, rivers, woods, buildings, present and past
like some conjuror’s sleight-of-hand.

It’s a neat trick — this confusing
of place and time — but I’ve learned how it’s done:
I know who once delivered Sunday papers
to that village; who almost fell
out of one of those trees one summer holiday;

who annually won the sack-race at the hospital fête
held in that field over there (the one you can’t
quite see any longer); who filled
his wellies trying to wade across that river;
who used to flatten pennies on this railway line.

There was Here and there was Elsewhere — which
was anywhere that wasn’t Here or ours —
though if we thought we owned the place, then
we were wrong: it owned us, was reluctant to let go,
clung for a while, but eventually forgot...

"...and, when leaving, please make sure you take
all your personal baggage with you.”

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One for sorrow   by Nigel Humphries

The lovers Ch‘ien Niu and Chih Nu were banished by Vega
to the opposite sides of the Milky Way. Once a year
magpies make a bridge of their wings for them to meet.

It was contrast which caught my eye in a heaven tree
waiting for leaves, perched on a transom of perspective,
its glib reality nattering in my ears.

I liked the way its pied plumage intensified a slick definition
to ply the mind, as if a benign oligarchy
had feathered out insurrections of colour.

Then I thought of pie charts and colour codes
and what did it do all day apart from nesting,
feeding, maybe filching something bright, hooked on bling.

That didn’t leave much time for deconstructing the snafu of life,
scavenging in the byways of Evolution and Fall theories,
debating the rights of other species to land on its branch,

or whether some insubstantial part of it survived death,
which might draw a bead on its thieving habit
and as I watched the notion soared

that I might like to lend my wings to a bridge
if altruism spanned anything at all
beyond the narrow gorge of self-protection.

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The Famous Poet   by Doreen McPherson

Demarcation lines are drawn.
We listeners sit in rows.
She stands behind the desk
and reads her published poems.

She breaks off, sits, chin-cupped,
glasses on, glasses off,
flashing quirky smiles.
Is she changing her perspective,
composing herself, steadying her world?

She opens up a dialogue with those
who ache to understand her essence.
Some strive to analyse her life.
Her riddling images distort, disturb, dumbfound.
Fumbling for the way into her world,
I'm holding back, afraid I’ll stumble on it.

The interval should let us rise, relax
or proffer books for her to sign,
converse and mingle in her space.
Instead, she’s swift to cross the line,
instal herself beside us at the back
and ask about our modest aspirations.

Close up, her sad and funny face
is childlike, fragile, vulnerable.
My heart is prompting me, “Reach out
and grasp her hands, and tell her
that it’s all right just TO BE”.

But she’s a Very Important Poet,
my mind reminds me. I’m a novice,
dammed up by inhibitions,
not deft enough to risk trespassing.
Yet, listening, 1 read the poet.

This much was understood,
that when the truth becomes
too much to bear,
the poet tells it slant - or lies.

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First Woodpecker   by Josh Ekroy

His father pours it for him, testing him
in the webs and flaws of drink,
lifts him to the tangled branches.

He learns to unscrew apple sheds,
fulcrum the bottle with both hands,
watches the bubbles rise and spit

in his tumbler. Red cap, blush cheek,
burning eye, green wings,
dagger beak, it’s a conical shell

waiting to be loaded. Brown glass
holds the stab and sparks in his throat,
sweeter than sweetness that clusters

around his heart, guts and bladder
and all the way to the tip of his penis.
He remembers forty years later

with a sudden, returning swoop:
the woodpecker rides the waves
of the forest air, grips the bark,

with a loud, ringing peal of laughter:
everything after this can be okay.
It moves in jerky leaps, held

by tail plume fanned against trunk,
waddles round to the opposite height,
drills for the larvae of army ants.

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The not-so-silent majority   by Margaret Gleave

We’ve tried more cheerful notes
like the odd chuckle, or downright belly laughs.
We’ve scrawled Have a good day
on walls, and sung Zadok the Priest,
or Land of Hope and Glory
on these tours of Mansions, Halls and Castles.
But no, it’s not what Joe Public wants;
indeed, a few of our own number have opposed us.

The woman in white insists
on haunting staircases. The lord,
complete with bloody ruff, walks battlements,
his head tucked underneath his arm;
and whole Roman legions march through walls
along their straight Roman roads.

Of course, it has to be night, preferably midnight.
Temperature drops, hairs rise
and chains rattle to the accompaniment
of hooting owls and banshee shrieks.

I ask you, comrades; follow me
into the daylight. Remember happy times, on the beach,
bucket and spade days. Let’s visit
our old homes where even bricks and plaster absorbed
our laughter, passion. Let their present owners
feel sunlight on a cold day, hear children playing,
The good ship sails down the ally-ally-o,
and dance to Chains — No? How about I love you, yeah, yeah, yeah.
Let them catch a glimpse at the rim of their vision
of us smiling, hugging each other.

Follow me
on the New Ghost Tour.

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Romance   by Christine Lacey

The most romantic thing he said was Pass the sugar
And sometimes on a Sunday there’d be sex,
And often when he’d had too much to drink
He’d kiss her, not as she hoped he would,
His face would smell all bacon roll, and grimly
She’d turn her lips away and dream of love.

The closest that they ever got to marriage
Was sometimes around Christmas after snow,
Or Springtime when love and flowers bloomed
And she would long for maybe better things,
Some pale blue china and a coffee pot,
She’d smile a little then and dream of love.

And sometimes when he almost became human
His arm might touch her rather awkwardly,
And then she wished that she could say to him
Tell me you love me, tell me you love me.
It didn’t seem to matter in the morning,
She’d cry a little bit and dream of love.

The nearest that they got to having children
Was sitting in a grubby little playground
With other people’s families on Sundays,
Then afterwards they’d go to car boots
And she would think This must be it then.
She’d hide her lonely face and dream of love.

And sometimes in the darkness she’d remember
The long forgotten days of her childhood,
And she would see the house she lived in
With all the warm and friendly people,
And when she felt his presence near her
She’d turn her cheek away and dream of love.

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Free Verse Shortlist (in order of receipt)

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The Legacy   by Kathleen Adkins

The storm has left its legacy once more
of human bones strewn on the shingle shore.
Where once the peat bog lay a mile inland,
two thousand years have gnawed the cliff to sand
and washed away a life.

Here lies a skull. I tease out roots and grime,
sift through millennia in layers of time.
From holes where eyes shone with intelligence
I tenderly unwind the filaments:
the vital strands of life.

We think our soul is ours and ours alone.
Not so. Within the fissures of the bone
lies D.N.A. so though our souls may leave
our bodies when we die, a shred will cleave
to shape a future life.

Thus through the mingling genes, like graveside roots,
the chromosomes from Romans, Celts and Jutes,
with Saxons, Vikings, Normans were enriched.
On evolution’s fickle loom, they stitched
their tapestry of life.

And just as worms ingest the mortal flesh,
whose blueprint is stamped on the spiral mesh,
so too the bones, entombed in peat and lime,
absorb and calcify in seams of time,
transforming transient life.

And thus the insubstantial soul of man
lives on forever without master plan:
mapped out in brief instalments, unforeseen,
a random thread of fate from gene to gene –
no predetermined life.

Whilst skeletons transmute and flesh dissolves,
the essence of another soul evolves
renascent individuality,
through death bestowing immortality:
the legacy of life.

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Legacy   by Kaye Lee

And always we recall the bandaged ear,
the startled eyes, the fizz of rainbow hair,
his tortured brushwork shouting joy and fear.

We see his house: mad walls of yellow cheer
embrace normality of bed and chairs
so always we recall the bandaged ear.

Where churches dance on crooked roads we hear
his soul’s brave hymns of hope vibrate the air
as tortured brushwork shouts his joy and fear.

His doctor sits, austere with caring, peers
at his erratic patient, cannot bear
that always he recalls the bandaged ear.

A stormy day in Auvers; rain like tears
can’t wash the landscape of his heart’s despair:
his tortured brushwork shouts less joy, more fear.

We love his sunflowers; the night bars where beer
is drunk beneath black skies as gold stars stare
but always we recall the bandaged ear
as tortured brushwork shouts of joy and fear.

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Infrastructure   by Barbara Daniels

      [after Brian Hayes]

There’s a book that’s just been written, where the author’s truly smitten
By the landscape that results from industry.
So forget that field of flowers; a more urban eye empowers
The keen onlooker - and that is you and me.

We must leave the hills and lochs to spend long holidays in docks
Taking note of how they make ships watertight.
The attention we can give it is repaid by that huge rivet
And there’s paint on every single thing in sight.

If we do take a vacation, we’ll consider aviation
As the purpose of the trip and not the means.
We’ve been used to club-and-joke; now we survey hub-and-spoke
Airport working and the lit-up runway scenes.

Turn away from mountain ridges and observe suspension bridges:
Towers, cables and wire ropes - a mighty feat.
He accepts they are romantic: without being sycophantic
We’re allowed our old aesthetics - as a treat!

Yet instead of parks for lovers, he points out that manhole covers
Have a beauty of their own in Budapest.
They’ll inspire a fresh nirvana in New York and Ljubljana,
So we’re off there on a sewage system quest.

All that concrete, brick and metal has attracted us. We’ll settle
For a viewpoint that reveres the work of man,
Where a potted plant rates zero and the engineer’s a hero.
We’ll write epics to the skilful artisan.

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The Love Song of the Female Xenopus laevis   by Barbara Daniels

      ["Male South African clawed frogs have been
triggered to sing love songs to females by a simple
injection ..."  Daily Telegraph 6th Feb., 2007]

My true love hath a brand new croak today
for yesterday they gave him an injection.
It’s boosted his libido: his fore-play
makes waves – I swoon – to me he is perfection.
Gonadotropins straight into his brain
produce a melody of such seduction
I can’t resist the courtship of my swain:
tomorrow I will yield and start production.
But till the little jellies fill our pond
we’ll wallow in the pleasures of the sack,
those scientists have used their magic wand,
his serenade’s my aphrodisiac.
      He’s my sole mate, my darling Valentine,
      (just keep that needle going) - he’s all mine.

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Walking in Autumn   by Barbara Daniels

Within two months this valley must grow dark
all day, as sun-stare slips behind the hill:
no shafts to brighten grass or give tree bark
its tiny ridges in the winterkill.
Within two months this valley must grow dark.

Some blame our Earth-tilt, angles between planes,
far-off geometry, but here the moss
tells North from South and leaf-fall preordains
the slow arrival of old Thanatos.
Some blame our Earth-tilt, angles between planes.

True harbingers of death are white, not black
as shadowed slopes. I doubt all myths and signs.
Another reading of the almanac
reveals a birth although no day-star shines.
True harbingers of death are white not black.

Cold on the skin gives quickening to blood.
My arteries reply, my tramping boots
pulse forward over mulch and gentle mud.
No hibernation, no sap-sink to roots.
Cold on the skin gives quickening to blood.

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Pantoum for Lovers   by Joan Condon

Softly he murmured his love
as they lay in the long summer grass.
Small birds sang in branches above
this ardent young man and his lass.

As they lay in the long summer grass
they did what all sweet lovers do,
this ardent young man and his lass,
while a cuckoo repeated “Cuckoo!”

They did what all sweet lovers do;
then they rested, and did it again,
while a cuckoo repeated “Cuckoo!
Don’t trust to the good faith of men!”

Then they rested, and did it again,
as the bright sun went down in the sky.
“Don’t trust to the good faith of men!”
was the cuckoo’s incessant loud cry.

As the bright sun went down in the sky,
“Don’t rely on his promises, lady!”
was the cuckoo’s incessant loud cry,
“His record with women is shady!”

“Don’t rely on his promises, lady!”
small birds sang in branches above,
“His record with women is shady!”
Softly he murmured his love.

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Rhyming Poetry Shortlist (in order of receipt)