Prize Winners

2011 Free Verse

2011 Rhyming Poetry

2011 Humorous Poetry

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The child, fishing for stars,
lays one on a rock and draws its shape;
gently lowers it back into the pool.

At home she concertinas paper,
traces her template and cuts a chain
to blu-tac on her bedroom wall.

That night she listens to the lull of waves,
shells whispering; dreams her stars
are dancing wheels of light.

Her mother reads things differently.
She sees only a picture of joined-up men
with long, pointed heads.

The child places her palm
over each star; every finger an exact match
repeating round the room.

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REVOLVING DOOR

We climb the steps, Dad and I,
      wait for the door's full circle,
then wise to its rhythm we leap
      like kids, chasing the orbit of a
skipping rope. I know the smell of
      disinfectant from previous trips
with buttons stuck up my nose.
      Tonsils are a small job, Dad says.

A nurse takes my hand, gripping
      it tighter than expected and uses
my name as bait to soothe, which
      doesn't really work. Then signals
it's time to say goodbye before
      I can object or start to cry and
Dad promises he'll be back soon.

Today I take the lift to see him
      and find he's wandered off the
ward. Right now, he decides I'm
      not a stranger but the certainty
of who I am is lost in the attic
      of his mind. Dressed in pyjamas
that don't match, buttons askew,

he seems more boy than man, like
      a child who cannot dress himself
and is swallowed whole by clothes.
     As I tuck him in, he talks about
his parents as though they are
      alive, then stumbles into a lucid
state, a vignette of such perfect

clarity that every wasted visit
      suddenly seems worthwhile. We
trade lullabies for laughter and
      reality does the decent thing, waits
patiently in the wings. Goodbye
      looms and I dread his infant tears
as I lean in to kiss him, whispering,
      I must go now Dad, but I'll be back soon.

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ALL THE KING'S HORSES

Dropping tears, my niece,
egg-mouthed,
invites herself a nosebleed.

Tapped just once she spills:
it is the boys,
they will not let her play.

My only niece; I mop
and patch while bit
by bit restored she hatches

hot pants on a promise;
three pound coins and proper names
allowed in Scrabble.

For the boys we act
hard-boiled, sucking on lemons,
hoisted onto walls;

Pale ovals perched on stone
we cheer for Germany, crack up,
for two can play at

their game, though my skin
beneath its fine-scarred shell feels
membranous with pity;

Not for this inconsequence,
but for her certain future falls
and for mine past.

There is no cavalry
to pick us up again; just love,
which does its best.

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HARRY HOUDINI SEARCHES FOR HIS MOTHER

As in my line of work, it's all in the details. The lights as low
as a poor man's bordello. A Tarot pack laid out on a heavy damask

cloth. The aromatic burn of incense sticks to focus the mind
on higher things while creating quite the miasma. A round of Cognacs

or two. Then we take our places, tightly packed as immigrants
in steerage so any movement she makes will be telegraphed

round the table. Are you there, Walter? she asks, voice tremulous.
Are you there? And there's nothing I want more than to see

her brother materialise in a skein of ectoplasm, float about the room
with the luminous grace of a jellyfish. But I haven't met a medium yet

I couldn't debunk. We hear a whisper, a man's jaunty whistle as if he's just come in after a hard day's work. Overcome,

she insists on taking a break, and here's the schtick: lights up; lights quickly down again so our eyes haven't had time to adjust

to the gloom when a bell rings in the box at my feet and I'm hit
on the head by some flying object. Of course nobody saw a thing.


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THE LONG GOODBYE

Mathair used to be such a good knitter
She created five matinee coats whilst she was waiting for me to be born
Now her mind has started to unravel
She can recall with perfect clarity
The moment she ought to have realised she'd get asthma later on
At Loreto Convent Grammar School, Omagh
They used to play hockey on a small area of grass
Lo and behold one day they got using the boy's full size pitch
But she couldn't run
Her friend Kathleen was such a good netball player
She left to become a nun
Years later we watched office workers play netball
In their lunch break at the foot of St Paul's
She loved that
Somebody told Granny she had a boyfriend at the age of fifteen
So that was forbidden
But she'd got bored with him anyway
Then she met my father
Who was a bit more louche and attractive
At Granny's funeral the spurned lover's wife told her
Her husband had only ever wanted Mathair
And he would have been good to her unlike my father
Who definitely put me off getting married
So now I am sitting beside her on the sofa
Desperately trying to follow a pattern –
I am not a keen knitter at all
Purl this row but knit the last three stitches
Knit this row
I have to tell her every single row
But I am middle-aged now
I have already dropped plenty of stitches
Now the whole lot is starting to unravel.

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NINE TO FIVE

When I’m older
I want to run a bookshop,
an old bookshop,
with a musty carpet
and deep mahogany shelves
stacked with books I haven't read.

I will sit
in a large leather armchair,
by the window
for the light,
and close for lunch
from nine to five.

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FREE VERSE SHORTLIST (in alphabetical order)

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ONLY CHILD

The only child slept in an attic room
her bed sandwiched between a wall
and stacks of boxes full of glasses
awaiting their eventual call

to the bar downstairs. Drowsing, she listened
to the voices below, the steady chime
of their refrain – goodnight, goodnight,
the revving of cars at closing time

and footsteps fading, leaving only
the hoot of a passing train or the slight
rattle of windows in the wind
to mark the rhythms of the night.

Sometimes, stirring beneath her blanket,
she overheard Noddy and Rupert Bear
engage in midnight conversation
and opened her eyes wide to stare

at the dark, intrigued by the shape of toys -
hoola-hoop and pogo-stick
shadowy in a corner, the curved
neck of her rocking-horse, his thick

black mane barely visible
in the moonlight. Often, she let
her thoughts wander, reciting the names
of all the customers she'd met

or chanting slowly to herself
the different drinks they ordered - Shandy,
Pale Ale, Guinness, Milk Stout, Snowball,
Port and Lemon, Cherry Brandy.....

Dizzy with their potency
she drifted to sleep, lulled by the chime
of the grandfather clock in the hall below,
counting the hours to opening time.

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THE DIVISION OF THE SPOILS

Once, more retreating than manoeuvring troops,
I left in five minutes flat with just one bag –
an A to Z, some knickers, cup-a-soups –
With no guns blazing, just a sad white flag.
With planning I could have been systematic
Stopped for a moment there in the debris
Been more the lawyer, less the paramedic,
More quantity surveyor than refugee.

So just in case, my love, that, unaware,
Small grievances begin to grow and fester
I've started up this list, hope you'll concur
That yours the pot but mine the aspidistra,
Yours the stuffed piranha, mine the scales,
Yours the freezer, mine the parasol,
Yours the hammer, mine the bag of nails.
Yours the house, and mine one bicycle.

It's only prudent to be always ready
I am not saying we will part, but if we do
Yours the worn machete, mine the teddy
Yours the sellotape and mine the glue
Yours the ironing board, and mine the creases
Yours the morning, mine the afternoon
Yours a certainty that just increases
Mine the flighty ever-changing moon.

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THOSE WERE THE DAYS . . .

when, satchel trailing, every morning
I ran a stick across park railings
and leapt at leaves on the higher branches
of trees or tap-danced over benches,
when I flapped my arms at flocks of pigeons
and hopped the length of the park with flagons
of rum at my belt like Long John Silver
hunting treasure, when every sliver
of floating bark was the wreck of a pirate
ship and I checked my shoulders for parrots,

when I spent long hours pretending to listen
to the rules of spelling or long division
while secretly dreaming of games in the ginnel
with Dennis the Menace or Beryl the Peril
longing to be catapulted
out by the final bell and vaulted
into the field where rabbits burrowed,
to smear my fingers buttercup yellow
and, safe in the womb of the oak, trace aeons
of time in the fluff of dandelions.


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WEATHER HOUSE

The couple in the weather house go in and out and in and out;
they’ve nothing left to talk about.

The lady with the parasol will never put her toe outside
on wet days. If she can’t decide

she hovers in the doorway while the gentleman in welly boots
cannot stand the sun and shoots

indoors when she appears and doesn’t even stop to greet her;
is that any way to treat her?

But she’s as bad and cuts him dead, she never smiles or says hello.
I wonder was it always so?

Or did they once upon a time hold hands and venture out together
and never talk about the weather?



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GALAPAGOS

Galapagos. A tortoise roars
upon those equatorial shores,
and mariners had best beware
the albatrosses roosting there.
Los Encantadas they are called,
enchanted islands of the world
where Melville stood fogbound and dumb
and Darwin found his Origin.
The Humboldt Current's ocean chill
suits well the whale and playful seal,
and many a whaler on this soil
slaughtered its creatures for their oil.
Poor stranded sailors have embraced
this haunted and peculiar place.
Shipwrecked we, too, together cling
to lands of love's imagining.
Galapagos. The name's a charm,
so let us go now, arm in arm,
to where marine iguanas play
and boobies blunder where they may;
where finches, free from Darwin's stare
flit through the cacti, unaware.
So do not quibble, don't delay,
life is too short, let’s seize the day
and we will find, amid life’s dross
our own unique Galapagos.




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AFTERMATH OF THE BATTLE OF ST. FAGANS

The soldier said, "I've got a game to play
and I want you to help me." On my stool
before his desk, half-blinded by a ray
of sun which seemed to trap me in a pool
of light, I turned my head the other way
to stare at the three captives in their chains.
Commander Fairfax snapped, "Ignore them. They
are turncoats and you won't need many brains
to deal with them." He handed down to me
three rolled-up paper spills. "Take those across,
give one to each." I offered them. "I see
that they will not co-operate. Just toss
those at their Judas feet upon the floor,
young man, then go back where you were before."
"All three of you have been condemned to die.
Due to the Lord Protector's clemency,
two of your number will be pardoned. By
his command, this process of lottery
will resolve the matter. If you defy
me, this minor will act on your behalf.
You have one final minute to comply."
Silence ensued, beyond a stifled laugh
from one of the accused. They stood stock still.
Only the dust-motes moved in filtered light,
drifting like fire-flies. They appeared to fill
the space, yet could not camouflage the plight
of the impassive trio, who declined
to follow the instructions as defined.
I fetched. He read out, "LIFE GIVEN BY GOD".
The second fragment was a blank. The third,
"LIFE GIVEN BY GOD" again. "Unfetter those two",
bellowed the Sergeant of the Guard.
Both struggled, as if desperate to share
their colleague's fate, were swiftly overpowered
until the doomed one had been taken out
across the street. When I began to cry,
one clerk, a gentle man who didn't shout,
patted my shoulder, wiped my eye,
assured me that the game of drawing lots
was over now. That's when I heard the shots.

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RHYMING POETRY SHORTLIST (in alphabetical order)

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A DEGREE OF SQUALOR

When the summer was done I delivered my son
to a clean student flat near his new university.
But when I called round two months later I found
his new lodgings a cesspit of septic diversity.

The place was a sea of detritus which, slight as
I'm sure it appeared to a boy of nineteen,
left me choking and reeling at what was congealing
in parts of the flat where no hoover had been.

There was mould in the kitchen which started me itching
and, as for the horrors which lurked in the fridge,
there were things with humungous great growths of green fungus
and small plastic bowls full of festering squidge.

Each carpet and curtain contained, I am certain,
more miniature wildlife than lives in a zoo.
E-coli was rife and I swear on my life
there were strange mutant species alive in the loo.

He had had little truck, it would seem, with a bucket
of water or mop, disinfectant and soap.
When I asked could he tell what had died by the smell
he looked quite aggrieved, had a sniff and said, Nope.

He offered me tea, but I said, Not for me,
since the cup which he offered contained a brown slurry
of what I could see was quite clearly not tea
but might have been gravy or possibly curry.

I accepted a drink, home-made vodka, I think.
To refuse that as well might have made me look chicken.
But before it was finished my eyesight diminished
and I needed a bowl to be horribly sick in.

I asked if his flatmate called Bridie was tidy
and whether, perhaps, she could dust round the hall.
He told me a duster completely nonplussed her
and she, just like him, did no housework at all.

Had the BBC tried to record the inside
of the flat for a series on grime they'd have ceased
once the medics made clear there was too great a fear
Of an outbreak of plague if the film were released.

Politicians all say student loans are the way
To save hard-pressed parents financial dismay.
When all’s said and done such a loan could be fun
So I’m looking for someone who’ll borrow my son.

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BUTTERFLY

She burst into the ballroom like a butterfly,
an explosion of exotic, garish cloth.
All that I could do was faintly mutter 'Why?'
and blend into the curtains like a moth.
Everybody present turned and gazed at her,
sweeping in the chandeliered hall.
Even my dear Robert seemed amazed at her
at my (and not my sister's) birthday ball.
In fact, he was the very first who danced with her,
swirling in a dreamlike whirlwind waltz.
Anyone could see he was entranced with her
oblivious to all her many faults.
By now, of course, the crowd all had their backs to me,
the birthday girl now well and truly spurned.
A gorilla could have taken a large axe to me
and I doubt that anybody would have turned.
Since we were kids, she'd always stolen things from me,
she coveted whatever I possessed.
She stole my dolls, my friends, my diamond rings from me,
my clothes, my stash of drink and all the rest.
It was obvious that Robert was in love with her
and pretty soon they slipped out of the hall.
I pictured my fiancé up above with her
and I, left lonely at my birthday ball.
On coming back, he shot a glance from her to me
and suddenly I felt the room grow hotter.
What happened next is something of a blur to me -
presumably that must be when I shot her.

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CONVALESCENCE

Old Ada screams "I WANT A CUP OF TEA".
She turns to me. "I'M PARCHED. GO FETCH A NURSE."
Shirt wants to talk about her op again.
Bev tries to peel an orange with one hand.
I swear the minute my stitches are gone
it's goodbye madhouse. I'll be getting out.

Yesterday Ada managed to slip out.
The rest of us were swilling cups of tea.
Ada flung off her nightie and was gone.
Starkers, she set off down the stairs. A nurse
noticed her (well, you would) and took her hand,
led her back gently to the ward again.

It's not the first time: she'll do it again.
You feel though for the politician out
for some cheap publicity pressing hand
after sweaty hand then hearing 'TEA! TEA!"
screeched at him by a naked Ada. Nurse
apologised but the M.P. had gone,

legged it. And who could blame him? If he'd gone
to our ward Shirl would have banged on again
about her colostomy bag. The nurse
warned her not to fiddle with it but out
it comes like clockwork just as the damn tea
trolley rolls up. Shirl's asking for a hand.

She's got the bag knotted to her drip. "Hand
me that tube" she asks Bev. No chance. She's gone
to the wrong one there. Bev struggles with tea
bags let alone colostomies. Again
Shirt tugs and fiddles. Now the drip slips out
of its moorings and Shirt yelps with pain. "Nurse!"

Silence at last. They're all asleep. I nurse
delusions of normality. A hand
flops down from Ada's bed. Thank God she's out
for the count not snoring for once. She's gone
blissfully quiet. As I look again
I realise she hasn't moved since tea.

I call the nurse. "I think Ada has gone."
She takes the lifeless hand. And once again
that shriek rings out. "NURSE, WHERE'S MY CUP OF TEA?"

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REPENT AT LEISURE

I'll never forget my greatest disaster
concerning a statue in white alabaster.
It started one day with a brief conversation,
concerning the need for some new decoration.

My soul full of purpose I went out to look,
eager for stripes in my dear wife's good book.
Found a nubile young maiden and bought it in haste
with a prominent bust; but all in good taste.

Surreptitiously placing it out in the hall,
I covered it up; it stood full six feet tall.
Then (hope springs eternal) she'd like what I bought,
I gave it her name as a shrewd final thought.

Our friends were invited, they made quite a crowd
and everyone murmured: 'What's under the shroud?'
When all was revealed, a nightmare for years,
my wife looked aghast, then just burst into tears.

The statue's long gone but I'm outside the pale,
reminded that I'm an insensitive male.
Men may still appreciate feminine form,
but don't bring it home or you'll stir up a storm.

O me miseratum.

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SLAM DUNK

There's a "Do" at the Arts Club, I said to my wife,
the light, the support and the joy of my life.
She replied with a look twice as sharp as a knife,
It won't be more poetry, will it?

I get bored bloody stiff and cramp in my bum
and both of my legs go totally numb.
If you 're reading tonight I simply won't come.
And I mean it. Don't doubt it, she said.

Of course not, I said. Do you think I would dare
to submit you to quite such a boring affair
when I know that it's something for which you don't care?
You did it last week, she replied.

You promised you 'd give me a really great night.
What I got was a Slam, very loud, long and trite.
And your spot, to be honest, was totally shite.
I'd rather catch rabies, she said.

If we must go to poetry I promise I am
not going near yet another damned Slam —
unless it's with Shakespeare or Omar Khayyam.
And I think that's unlikely, she said.

So, after persuasion and lots of soft soap
we went to the Arts Club to hear Wendy Cope.
You'll love her, I said. She replied, You can hope!
If I don't there'll be trouble, she said.

We sat there and waited till twenty past eight.
Then the manager told us why Wendy was late.
It's an age thing, he said, She's forgotten the date.
I wish I had too, said my wife.

Then the manager said, Look here, one and all,
we've some really good poets here in this hall.
Let's do something impromptu and have a real ball
with a Slam. Oh, dear God, said my wife.

If you try to join in our marriage is through.
Next time I go out it will not be with you —
plus you’ll find yourself needing some very strong glue
to repair all the damage my scissors will do
to the place where your masculine trademark once grew.
So, stick that in your Sonnet and smoke it.

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             NAILING MICHAEL MCINTYRE'S FEET TO THE FLOOR

He walks, he talks
                                                            he sashays, spiels and smirks.
Some comics make their names
                                                            impersonating celebrities.
Mclntyre mocks us all,
                                                            caricatures our affectations,
winds us up like watches
                                                            nails every nuance of our characters,
apes us unmercifully,
                                                            leaves us in stitches.
I love the man, his mien
                                                            his mannerisms, but the bloke's
a human pendulum, resembles
                                                            a renovated Ronnie Corbett with
a battery inserted in his rectum.
                                                            A stage is not a stage,
so far as he's concerned,
                                                            more of a route march, side to side.
Curtain up, curtain down,
                                                            entrance to exit, his performance
hinges on perpetual motion.
                                                            Just once I want to witness
the intervention of a peak-capped,
                                                            po-faced Regimental Sergeant Major
in the middle of his act bellowing,

                    "STAND STILL, YOU HORRIBLE LITTLE ARTIST!"

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HUMOROUS POETRY SHORTLIST (in alphabetical order)

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