Prize Winners

2009 Free Verse

2009 Rhyming Poetry

Strange Harmony of Contrasts

We’re listening to Franco Corelli on CD -
Cavaradossi’s aria from Tosca Act I:
          Recondite armonia di bellezze diverse!...

but it’s your Dad you’re hearing, when he did the circuit
of working-men’s clubs, sharing Puccini with his mates,
and you can’t help mouthing the English words he sang:
           Strange harmony of contrasts thus deliciously blending!...

And I see him, there, as large as the clichéd life
you’ve described: the packed Concert Room,
folk sitting rapt, or standing, beer glasses in hand —
Harold Charnock impassive at the upright piano,
its sticking ivories nicotined and click-clacking
in their jangling accompaniment - and through the veils
of cigarette smoke, the just-dimmed lights,
your Dad performing — all five foot four of him,
stockily unoperatic, arms and hands — what huge hands
held as if pleading in their soft kneading of air,
his frame heaving with his breathing in his Caruso pose,
the song growing from abdomen till owning his throat —
over tongue, mouth and lips, to launch, full-throttled, richly
out — his face lantern-like, eyes aflame, alive, in the light
of the aria — tenor voice chanticleering clear, loud, and as fine
as a rung wine-glass — as he gives all his giving — voice rising,
thrilling at the trilling high notes — and making spines shiver —
like yours, like mine, there, here — held spellbound by the tune.
Suddenly we’re back to Corelli’s Tosca
Cavaradossi’s Act III aria:
           E lucevan le stelle
           ed olezzava la terra...

And again you’re mouthing out loud your Dad’s words:
           When the stars were brightly shining
           and faint perfumes the air pervaded...

the tears streaming down your cheeks,
for him, for you.

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TEA AT GRANNIE'S

Summer; and the cold water,
In the lemon-yellow milk bucket,
Is unequal to its task
Resulting in the need
To skim creamy archipelagos
From the cups of tea.
Jelly is forsaken
In favour of canned fruit
And the butter is slick
As you spread it on the loaf
Hugged firmly to your nylon bosom
Then slice with the bread knife,
Sabre-curved from sharpening,
Always towards you.

We lay the table, burrowing
Into the sideboard for jams;
Midnight blue damson,
Golden apple jelly and the spicy,
Slubbed silk of rhubarb and ginger.
Back and forth to the kitchen with
Plates, and dishes, and cutlery.
A bowl of lettuce, and celery hearts
In a Woolworth’s glass; Dairylea triangles
And crimson-wrapped Cracker Barrel,
From back of the larder, under the stairs,
And ham from the butchers over the road.
Jam tarts with stalks in like tropical toadstools
And sliced slab sponge, seductive with lemon zest
Beneath its brittle crust of glacé icing.
We know we’ve really grown up
When at last you entrust us
With carrying the brimful jug of Carnation.

Finally we sit down to feast,
Bare legs slowly adhering to our chairs;
Burnt umber chenille softly brushing our knees
Beneath a brittle crust of starched white linen.

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THE MATTER OF A COUNTING PIG

Yes, the tack-tack of my high-heeled feet
the wibble-wobble of my coiled tail
always make humans laugh.

She thinks she has taught me to count
— or pretend to count —
for her silly circus act.
Well, I’ll go shake my ears,
I use Calculus.
Where does she think I’ve been —
just rolling in muck?

Let’s get over those three idiotic little pigs,
not to mention the one that wee’d
all the way home.
I’m telling you that pigs only say ‘Oink’
when people are around,
to make believe they’re dumb.
It suits our purposes
to hide our excellent pedigree.

You must know the saying —
a cat looks down on a man,
a dog looks up to a man,
but a pig looks him in the eye
and sees an equal.

Next time you’re tempted
to talk of making a silk purse,
or a pig’s ear of something,
to wonder if pigs might fly
or would appreciate your pearls,
just remind yourself
that our special anatomy
brings us close to humans
in matters of the heart.
Even our skins are similar
(though ours makes better crackling).

Our physiological proximity
might be useful to you one day,
so be careful which sausages you eat.
Oink! Oink! Oink!

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THE LAST DRAGON

Her wings are kept concealed these days:
veils which once were her proudest raiment,
rainbows iridescent in the twilight,
she hides beneath a cloak of everyday.

Her eyes once saw a hundred different colours:
spectra layered on spectra,
the living glow of hearts.
But now, she lowers her eyes, abashed,
just in case someone might look too close
and see the being within the mascara veil.

There used to be living fire in her breath,
a winter’s warmth in the deep of her bosom.
Now, a stale taste lingers on her tongue,
telling of coffee, cigarettes and kisses,
and her fire is a tremulous flicker.

It has been too long since she sang;
the Dragon-melodies are three-quarters forgotten.
But puddle-reflections and mirrors do not lie,
and sometimes they whisper back an ancient phrase
and she remembers her wings.

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NUGGET

I feel more gravedigger than fairy
placing your tooth into a pink pill box.
The nugget of enamel vanishes
into creases of tissue lining.

For weeks, you’d wanted it out; wobbling
the roots loose with your tongue,
prodding it with your fingers.
Of course, you drew the line at Dad’s pliers.

I smiled at the haste, imagined with you
what a fairy would do with your incisor.
Use it as a table or stool maybe?
Surely it would be too hard for a chair.

I didn’t say that given time,
I could fashion it into something
beautiful; exquisite.

But finally tugged free as you hoped,
now it leaves a gap in your smile.
Your voice lisps to me through the hole
like a piano missing an ivory.

As I close this pink coffin lid,
I know we’ve lost something more
than your first milk tooth.
But it’s not you who’s mourning

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THE POWER STATION

The people who pass in trains
notice it as they do the weather;
an immensity of brick, a brute cathedral
whose four white chimneys dazzle in the sun.

They watch for weeks as the nave
is stripped of its massive turbines, wait
for the wrecking ball, the storms of dust.

Nothing happens.
Nothing happens for years

and it takes them by surprise
when they see the PM on Thames TV
holding her hard hat, grabbing the mic,
with the building behind, ‘See what can be done
when government works with private enterprise!’
(A theme park, with shopping.)

The task begins, viewed with interest
from each clattering train.
The roof comes off and girders sprout.
The west wall collapses in a hail of grit.
Scaffolding props the gutted wreck.

Years pass. Nothing happens —
only rust that accrues like debt.

Dodging the puddles,
a party in day-glo picks its way
across the mud with clipboards
and a loan. A new initiative
takes flight. ‘Embrace the landmark!’
Scrub the marble. Resurrect
the art deco and dream of restaurants,
hotels, the biggest theatre yet
in place of dials and switching gear.

Nothing happens, even then.
People come to the end
of their working lives without
having dined in Control Room A.

What then? ‘Fresh Thinking!’
a green sign says as smoother trains
whine on the bend with the progeny
of those who first went by, wondering.

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Free Verse Shortlist (in alphabetical order)

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NOBODY HURRIES IN HARROGATE

Nobody hurries in Harrogate.
You can see the old ladies who patiently queue
for a nice tea at Betty’s, with salmon and cucumber
sandwiches laid on a white paper doily.
The waiters are smart, maitres d’ never oily.
On sunny Bank Holidays, see them in rows
with their Queen Mother hats and their very best clothes,
talking cribbage and cruises, a grandson’s first tooth,
or twilight romances remembered from youth,
days when children were kind and MPs told the truth;
nobody hurries in Harrogate.

Nobody scurries in Harrogate.
The colonel with brogues and magnificent whiskers
(and lace underwear that he’s pinched from his sisters)
just ambles along with no sense of alarm
and a rolled Telegraph tucked up under his arm.
He raises his hat to the ladies who pass,
and he longs for his gin in an icy-cold glass.
How pleasant to live in a town so serene,
where no one’s aggressive and nobody’s mean
and even the toilets are fragrant and clean —
nobody scurries in Harrogate

Nobody worries in Harrogate.
On slow Sunday mornings the folk congregate
to take leisurely breakfasts on shiny white plates
at the cafés and bars down Montpellier Hill
to the chime of the church bell, the ting of the till.
Unfurled Sunday newspapers tell gloomy stories —
the credit crunch, Palestine, Labour and Tories —
but while there’s still cricket and cream scones for tea,
while there’s monarchy, gentry and Radio 3,
there’s no need to be troubled: be happy, be free,
because nobody worries in Harrogate.

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THE NEWLYWEDS

I think about you often, how only hours after
priest pronounced you man and wife, you drowned in shallow waters.
Did you make a pact to paddle there, enticed by thoughts
of scrambling in secret on wet rocks while waiters

were busy serving wine to guests at your reception?
Were you drunk on pink champagne, as one report implies,
or like excited children, unaware of danger, daring
each other to leap from bank to bank in three great strides?

If you had only waited, chatted to the locals,
might they have stopped you, warned you to be wary of the current,
told you how, with nearby Bolton Abbey heavy with cloud,
the river gathers force and quickly turns to torrent?

I doubt it. I’m sure they would have known that newlyweds
and cautionary tales don’t mix. Wishing you happiness,
they’d probably have waved, then watched you stride off hand in hand
towards your death in morning suit and bridal dress.

I’m haunted by the question of what happened next.
Was it the swirling force of sudden flood that pulled you under
or a lovers’ tiff, a teasing push, that tipped you in
the weight of wedding clothes causing you to flounder

in the icy flow? Did you slip, then tumble
both at once, or did one of you fall first perhaps,
the other bravely risking everything to help? I think
of how they found you three days later, hands still clasped

and wedding rings intact. Were your final moments
snatched by fear and rising panic as you guessed that this
must be the end, or, as you clung together swallowing water,
was there time and space enough for one last kiss?

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BEYOND

The guides are left behind on proven ground,
their knowledge written out in black and white,
and authorised. Their calculations (sound
and solid facts) gleam like a harbour light
seen from the dark horizon’s fading rim
when all ahead is black, unknown. Inside
laboratory walls ideas swim
dimly across this petrie dish, this slide —
a cautious exploration, a first test
of something part-instinctive, part-inspired,
and part from reasoned study when the rest
sat back, claimed their small laurels, and retired.

Within this slow experiment there lie
perhaps a future cure for future ills,
something as yet unknown, unnoticed by
researchers who remain reined in. The stills,
retorts and tubes, the greening cultures wait
identity; discovery seeks a name
to travel with, beyond the lab’s estate,
the hiss of gas, the flickering probing flame.

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SISU
(a Finnish word meaning ‘strength in adversity’)

The craziest thing I have done in my life
is fly to Helsinki from Heathrow, and then
on to Kajaani to carry my wife.

Thousands were there in the mild summer sun.
Reuters and Eurosport. Grandstands all round
the purpose-built route. This was going to be fun

only for masochists: plenty were here.
No trophy or money rewarded the winner;
he simply went home with his wife’s weight in beer.

Three hundred metres, two hurdles en route,
a ditch full of water, these had to be crossed.
I eyed the next couple: a smiling, hirsute

Nordic colossus; his minuscule spouse.
Mine climbed on my back. We were ready to start.
She felt like a monster. I felt like a mouse.

I can hardly describe what happened thereafter.
Only the pain and the effort involved
stay in my brain. And her wearisome laughter.

That evening at dinner we sat by a lake
at an upmarket restaurant. Did she agree
the ludicrous caper had been a mistake?“

Of course not ,“ she giggled. “We had to come last:
you’re slightly too thin and I’m slightly too fat.
Who cares if you’re sturdy or gifted or fast.
What counts is the trying. I love you for that.”

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TRISTRAM FLYTE
who was Cursed with Misguided Parents and Expired Most Horribly.
(apologies to Hilaire Belioc,)

Have sympathy for Tristram Flyte
Who passed away the other night
And entered through St Peter’s gate
Untimely— he was barely eight!
Through infancy, Flyte’s Mere and Pere
Insisted that their Triss should fare
Far better than they both had done
In Education. So their son
Was groomed for Oxbridge from the start.
Since birth, they’d kept him well apart
From ordinary Girls and Boys,
Computer Games and plastic Toys.
Grand Opera replaced TV
And food contained Omega Three
To hone his brain. Each daylight hour
His Ma insisted he devour
(In Latin): Caesar’s Gallic Wars.
He never was let Out of Doors
Save to attend his Infant-Crammer,
Where emphasis was placed on Grammar.
And every Weekday Afternoon
Philosophy or the Bassoon.

Young Master Flyte was far from well;
The Doctor said, ‘His head will swell
To seven times its normal size
If Tristram gets no Exercise!
Forget the lessons, send him out
To play. He needs to run about
And make a Den and kick a Ball,
Learn what it’s like to Trip and Fall.’

But sadly, it was all too late,
“Exploding Brain” poor Tristram’ s fate;
Few thought his parents very bad
For killing, as they surely had,
Their only Child. They’d risk the same
To prosper in the Schooling Game.
Ignorant, as they chewed on Proust,
Of chickens coming home to roost.

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SPRING BANK HOLIDAY

If Larkin could experience again
That famous journey on a Whitsun train
He’d be amazed at where the world has drifted
Since that warm day when eager couples lifted
Luggage and hopes aloft; when hiss of steam
Signalled the consummation of a dream.

He wouldn’t know which day to board the train
If trying to observe that time again —

The day before Whitsunday, or to lend
His eye to Spring Bank Holiday weekend.
And, having sorted that out — a surprise —
The dearth of weddings, Whit or otherwise.

Contemporary couples tie the knot
With slacker cords. How do they know they’ve got
Bound up enough to be committed?
No legal milestones seem to be permitted.
Today’s girls can’t say no, because (I’d guess)
They’ve never been invited to say yes.

Indeed , if Philip could come back
He’d soon be shunted to another track.
He’d find Whit different, and weddings scarce,
The weather muggier, and, what is worse,
His shade would shudder on the platform, for
Our lives don’t run on his lines anymore.

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Rhyming Poetry Shortlist (in alphabetical order)