Winning Poems

prizewinners' page

You're an electric bolt
between finger and thumb,
a fuser of planes, a merger of surfaces;
fur to collar, button to jacket,
You shine with the skill of women,
slender hopes stitched white into wedding gown,
tenderness tucked into baby's blue bonnet.
You are a flash of salmon scaling death's waters,
certain of your silver shroud.

You strive to warm the world,
with a slither of bone,
a sinew softened with spit.
You count threads, splice them,
fix them into comfortable patterns,
and where they are as bare as moths
in an old wardrobe, with one leap you renew
the fabric, making things whole again
like a virtue; making do and mending,

as women in a war, repairing
shattered shirts, and jackets and more,
sweating into the night,
over smoky fires, in a smoky light,
homespun thread whistling behind you
through old cotton or silk, with the sound
of wind breathing heavily, through leaves
thick with forest.

You can draw blood, too,
a hiss of pain as skin is pricked,
and pricked again until a callous forms,
tailored beautifully to a way of life,
until each thought of emperor's clothes,
each blow struck for the little people,
(the heroes of flies),
each kiss from the prince
of every ordinary morning,

awakens my desire,
sharp as the point of lemons,
to tell truth with lies, to embroider:
as frost reinvents the tapestry
of a long winter's night.

...how long has it been there?
Moon-faced white magic, collecting the lost light
down a glidepath towards a single slow flap and tilt
then dark again.

I stand for a while
letting my heart slow and the image settle
then walk home,
not rushing to close the space
but bringing the night and the owl back for you.

Arctic terns squeal outrage.

Great skuas launch a surprise attack,
menacing wings taut as a fiddle's string.
A hair's breadth from my scalp,
they swerve away,
trace an arc,
then swoop again
in a frenzy to protect their young.

I am just a gate-crasher
In this ritual of renewal,
my link to the land worn thin,
my commitment to the future

fragile as a fulmar's egg
on a cliff's ledge.

Our minds,
crisp as mint,
crave books and porcelain,
nail varnish, videos,
silk rubbed wooden bowls.

On star studded nights
our ears seek peaceful music

Daily I pray for the moon
to guide me in my holy war.

I will not let all be lost.

In secret,
with my bare hands,
I will construct a ladder
from my sister's alphabet,
for my girls to climb,
for all girls to climb.

Even if it ends
in the football stadium,
hanging from the goal-post,
bullet in the back of my brain.

I got a sometimes girl who lives on the Southside.
A chica with angel hands, eyes dark as mean streets.
In a room emptier than a midnight subway, she hands me a piece of sky.

She says I gotta be out before her old man gets in. Alright?
He never reneges on a promise, breaks bones for a living.
I got a sometimes girl who lives on the Southside.

In bed my wife and I lie like two holed kites.
Our paper-skins brush,we turn, dream of chrystal and chandelier.
A room emptier than a midnight subway, she witholds a piece of sky.

I once thought of perfect houses multiplying like a franchise.
I once thought two meant never the price of going solo.
I got a sometimes girl who lives on the Southside.

In the next room, I can hear this chica's baby cry.
I tell her it's not the money, but the principle--she laughs.
A room emptier than a midnight subway, she hands me a piece of sky.

On the phone, she says she can't talk, it hurts to blink.
Her old man found out, beat her and called her puta.
Now I often think about this nowhere girl who lives on the Southside.
In a room emptier than a midnight subway, she handed me a piece of sky.

You – your skin is oil paint
Shiny, silky soft.
Slightly lighter ‘round the cheeks but
Dark as Congo forest.
Thick and rich and beautiful.

Your hand is bigger than mine
When we put them side-by-side
Your warm brown earth eclipsing
My vivid full-moon palm.
And when our bodies lie together:
Nutella spread and white chocolate
I think, in all the world, I’ve never seen
Something so delicious.

To talk of the colour of skin
Has always been frowned upon
As something not acceptable
Something not to be done.

But this is a celebration
Your body and mine.
Not of the colour of culture or creed
But of worlds happily combined.

Our legs a forest: mahogany and silver birch,
Our chests the landscape of night and day
Our hair: black sheep and horse’s mane
Our breath the winds of East and West
Our hearts the sound of distant drums
Our spirit and our life are one.

From this salt-grimed, makeshift hide we saw
birds whose urges were always to shun the coast:
wavering lines of arctic auks skipping above the swell;
long-tailed skuas and long-tailed ducks
regretting their cumbersome names
and a single landward Leach’s ecstatic in the rage.

But by morning, with all its strength blown out,
we walked the sun-glazed, gleaming isle
to see fuschia hedges autumned overnight,
harvest rolls which had vaulted walls
to lie as wrapped erratics in the lanes,
wind-harried displaced laundry pegged in crippled trees
and storm petrels mimicking martins
lacing the cattle’s gentle pastorals with epic sagas of the seas.

She stood square in our kitchen, our stepmother. Rueful.
A shop steward in the 1189. She inspected
our faces that must have resembled the small animals
who lived just outside the woods, the ones who
always eluded her, ran into the black diamond of night.

We turned to each other, mybrothersandsisters,
listened to the drift of dust motes, us, playing
with cheese-smudged knives without guilt
or condolence. It was such a fine morning of clarity,
cat-whispers from the hills. In a crisp voice,
the peel of a bell, she announced she was a Communist.
It stung me like a whiff of ammonia. Soon, the men
would make unannounced visits, perhaps take her away.
And my father. He couldn’t flip flapjacks for bees.

I turn away so as not to watch you go
and drive over a diminishing patchwork throw
to a doll’s house I stoop to enter,
rummage on all fours for a piece of paper
on which to write my love, or what will fit of it,
as your plane banks and England shrinks to in-
my words wrenched mid-

or when I first wore glasses
and saw thousands of individual leaves,
a surfeit of greenness.

I had to shade my mind against the glare.

Now we live by a softer light
at ease with familiar routines,
keeping the music down low.

As the brindled leaves slowly fall
we start to see the shape of the trees.

Nasturtiums and chrysanthemums
are still in bloom;
orange, gold, red,
burning,
burning on the edge
of short October light.
North sloping winds
ruffle the raw silk petals
as they struggle and blow free,
dancing the salsa with seared oak
tumbling, rolling,
and rumbling
down Teignmouth Road,
past the split rail fence,
the old wagon wheel,
gathering in the ravine
as the sun breaks fast
exploding hills and dales,
burning, burning on the edge
of short October light.

And what would have driven the rawest lamentation?
His boar-crested helm as mark of his majesty?
The garneted casketry as symbol of wealth?
Or those well-worn winter boots
in memory of a man?

2.
On another day we too stood around
in taut and uncertain grief
as they carried him with difficulty
down the over-narrow stairs.
Followed by the meagre train
of his grave goods: the de-mob suit
worn fresh to his wedding
and, matured, to all of ours;
a random outdated tie, his smarter shoes…..

And yet what drew
those sharp collective tears
was his glasses’ case
lying awkwardly unrequired
between his fags and his half-drunk tea.

And feeling still the need for preparation,
(if less certain of the journey now)
we rushed to catch the undertaker
who took the proffered item
with a solemn, embarrassed bow.

Boys with the chiclet grins of American clowns
offer willow-green shade to the girls by the river -
a bookbag, an iPod, a bottle of wine
while soaking up sun on a layabout Monday.

Sharing willow-green shade, boys and girls watch the river
while pheromones spiral extramild April air,
soaking up sun on a layabout Monday
blue jeans are hiked over winter white ankles.

Pheromones spiral extramild April air
as, breathless and beautiful, girls splash in the river,
blue jeans hiked over winter white ankles
and the boy fall head over heels. Overreaching

as, breathless and beautiful, she splashes into the river,
one step too far past 'Danger Deep Water'.
A boy follows head over heel, overreaches,
then suddenly, silently, he's gone.

One step too far - past 'Danger Deep Water'.
She's pulled to shore by her shocked-sober friends
but he's silently, stupidly gone.
A boy face to face with the cold fact of death.

She's shivering on shore with her shocked-sober friends,
the little they know a deadweight on their shoulders -
boys face to face with a cold fact of life
and girls with pale cheeks damning April and Eliot.

Yea, though I walk through the chalet with the valet of death,
I will fear no rent increase:
For thou art with me, love;
Thy job and thy laugh, they comfort me.

Thou preparest a table before me
In the presence of mine anemones
Thou anointest my head with plans
My debt runneth over.

Shirley’s good wage and mercy shall follow me
All the days of my life:
And I will dwell in the house of the Landlord
For ever.

One day in search of something new
He sought a subject at the zoo.
He sat upon the lions` fence
Which showed a lack on commonsense.
He mused and heard a lion roar
He thought a potent metaphor.
"Be careful Sir," the keeper said,
"The lions have not yet been fed."
The poet paid no heed at all
And wandered through the lion`s hall.
His mind full of his opening line
He just ignored the warning sign.
A beast called Laurie shook his mane.
The poet poked him with his cane.
The lion yawned a practice munch
And had the poet for his lunch.

The Zoo Board took a PR line
And by the lions put a sign.
In death he got a kind of fame
For on the sign they put his name.

It states in fancy copperplate
`CEDRIC. The poet Laurie ate.`

Oh why do I find myself derided
Because my tenant has decided
That unless I take payment in peas
He will banish my Karmic aura overseas
Well I’ve had as much as I can take
It is time to get rid of this fake

I’ve told myself
I shall not judge,
nor pledge myself to any cause.
I only pause to ruminate
on this strange age of lethargy;
sometimes even contemplate
how undemanding life can be …
avoiding conflict,
shunning strife,
apathy tolerates
dull lives
and the choice of
saying I don’t care;
the slumping around on the chair,
of not being aware
of all the lies
of all the guys in charge.

I refuse to vote.

Though on a note of caution
I will make a declaration…
If forced to carry a banner,
It would be for apathy.
Or play a tune on the piano,
It would be for apathy.
Throw a spanner in the works,
It would be for apathy.
Have aggressive manners,
It would be for apathy –

(What do we want?
Apathy – maybe.
When do we want it?
Let’s wait and see)

She's lived at Number nine for nine million years,
hears gossip from nine miles with her bionic ears
Gladly would she wipe out all blacks and queers
and others who embody her xenophobic fears.

Molly; always carries a pac-a-mac.
She's a wet Wednesday in Pontefract.
She's as fun as watching Crackerjack.
If you borrow a match, she'll want it back.
She'll call a big top a bivouac.
Old bag? she's an ancient haversack.
She's as appetising as celeriac.
She's a hypo-bleeding-chondriac.
Thinks her indigestion is a heart attack.
Ask her how she is, you'll go to hell and back.
When it comes to ailments, she's an anorak.
She's a Robin Reliant, not a cadillac.
She makes Brian the Snail look like a maniac.
She's the opposite of Jack Kerouac.

Molly. Never been high, but loves being down.
She thinks: why smile when you can frown?
Sees a pretty colour, she'll paint it brown.
She's a small mind in a small town.

In the winter sometimes
you get a bit Leonard Cohen;
but heavy's OK,
deep is cool.

We do Incredible String Band, and
there are many that don't.

I can do Janis
and you can handle it.

Spring brings Pink
and Gomez
and Bjork - and the music WE make moves earth.

Festival summer - jigs, jazz, zydeco, trance
music lives in the air
and the leaves
on the trees
in the breeze.

Music shared is a love,
and it is good.

And it is good
that you know now
it is better for both of us
if you keep the miniscule details about the history of Hawkwind
to yourself.

On how to fill in crossword puzzles
How to plant a limp hydrangea
How to bend without pulling muscles
Eat months-old yoghurt without (much) danger

On how a hat can look sartorial
Or how shirts cum dusters can be shirts once more
On being rude but not lavatorial
And eating food retrieved from the floor

Seventy! The age to be sagacious
And know your hellebore from your ericaceous

Peach and apricot (a hint)
Bright lime notes, and elegant
Vibrant purple (earthy nose)
Light-weight finish, creamy rose

Oakey body, hints of spice
(Herbaceous edge was very nice)
Piercing, pungent, lychee scents
Spice-box cherry, long and dense

Steely palate, full bouquet
Rich, ripe bramble, fresh-mown hay;
Sweet and fresh as baby’s breath
…Lord, they bore me half to death.

Now Goldilocks was a hungry chick.
She wanted food and she wanted it quick.
No McDonald's so she'd have to forage,
found an empty house and three bowls of porridge.
Tasted till she found the best
then found three beds so she could rest.
She never thought whose house it woz
but a family of bears came grievin' coz
some-one had trespassed in their 'hood
some-one needed to be smacked up good.
Goldilocks knew what they was after,
jumped out the winder, showed herself smarter.
She went feastin', she went thievin',
left those fuzzy bears a-grievin'.
So all you sisters and bro's of mine
just lock your doors afore you dine

"No school for you, my lad" he said,
"You'll have to stay at home in bed."
I secretly cheered. I could have a nice rest
While my friends at school had an English test!

For nearly a week I was too ill to care
That I couldn't get up and sit in a chair,
But after that it got really boring
Just reading, watching TV and drawing.

By the following week I became such a pest
That Mum said I could get up and get dressed,
But what I said I would really like
Was to be able to go out on my bike.

Looking through the window just isn't the same
As being outside and playing a game.
Being kept home is not much fun
When all your friends are out in the sun.

I could hear their shouts and whoops of glee
And wondered if they were missing me.
I really must be some kind of fool,
But I can't wait to get back to school.

SNACK HAIKU
Faced with a choice of
celery or chocolate
my girth is increased.

DINNER HAIKU
Using fresh chillies
is a culinary game
of Russian Roulette.

The River Arun
swans on the banks
cormorants on the posts
boats bobbing on the icy water
seagulls flying gracefully in the sky
sea-bass swimming in the rippled water.
The sun sets with beautiful colours.

Oh, If only I was the ocean
A vast wide blue expanse
I'd plummet to the darkest deepest point
And smile at my own adventure.
Oh, but woe is me, I'm just a feeble human.

Oh if only I was the tree
I'd share my sacred secrets
The golden glorious eye-blinding leaves
Would whisper words of untold wisdom.
Oh, but woe is me, I'm just a feeble human.

No amount of wishing, waiting, wanting
Can change my life's unwinding path
But I, yes I can carry on dreaming my days away.

Here’s to the boy whose smile became shattered.
Here’s to the bullet, all red and blood spattered.
Here’s to the voices whose sentiment won’t last.
And here’s to the actions you played much too fast.

Here’s to the punk who thinks his anarchy will hit.
Here’s to the emo who knows he shouldn’t slit.
Here’s to the chav who shoots all the rest down.
And here’s to the prep who can’t stop polishing her crown.

Here’s to the stereotypers, the hypocrites, the jokes and the players
Here’s to all generations, every society and even all you tax payers
Here’s to the people that never ever let anything go.
And here’s to this world; how did it all become this low?

So here’s to every single one of you
Lets hope we all know just not to fall through.
Lets get through the mistakes and pass through the cracks
And we’ll be sure we can make this life last.

The wheels turn over the road,
And the gentle clip of four horse hooves,
A wise old shire leading the way,
His great heavy head held high in the breeze.

Shining silk hide a-gleam in the setting sun.
The wheels turn over the road,
A hush rises over the night,
And still the proud shire leads the way,
No guide but for a sprinkle of stars,
And a path lit by the light of an open moon,

And the ancient wagon rolls into town.

But the clear water blackens
Silt and sand cough up
Approaching like a rolling storm
A sudden panic, then all silence
As the boat creaks under its load.

The cool, safe cave, a shelter
From the whirling blitz of snow
Here there is peace, a silent comforting
Where a mother bear rests her paws
And playful cubs pounce in the gleaming white.

Droplets of water stir the muzzle
And a deep rumbling ends all play
As the bears gather together in worry
The ceiling comes down in a shower of glory
And cubs lie buried under their silver nursery.

All things start but nothing lasts
All things end, all too fast.

All was so happy there was peace and calm,
The green world was safe from destruction and harm.
The intricate balance of predator and prey
Was smooth and peaceful every night and day.

The world was untainted, the forests flourished,
Nature ran its course keeping the soil nourished,
The great leafy trees had nothing to gain,
Yet still they gave shelter to animals, from rain.

Then out of the ranks of beasts and birds,
Came a creature that looked so absurd,
With no fur or feathers no tail, not a wing,
Couldn’t roar like a beast nor like a sweet bird sing.

Mankind they call themselves a name for one and all,
They cut down mighty trees to build house and hall,
They travel over oceans to different sand,
Just to kill each other over money or land.

They build huge towers, to the sky, they say,
And destroy Great Nature if it gets in their way,
They grow, they expand, like a plague they spread,
The trees saddened me most like an ocean they bled.

Two thousand years later destroyed was the Earth,
As abandoned and desolate as when I came at its birth,
All because of one race called humans, or mankind,
Unaware of the suffering that they left behind.

I came at the end to a barren waste,
Because of mankind and their foolish haste,
No more plants or animals no birds in the sky,
My creation failed as alone, I cry.

It was so cold,
it was so damp,
and sat in the corner was a flickering lamp.

It felt so lonely,
even with him by my side,
I felt so empty, as if I had died.

It shouldn't of happened,
I could have stopped it, if I had tried,
but now in disgrace, my face I must hide.

I heard him say it,
that officer so bold,
MURDER, MURDER that word is so cold.

The cell door opened,
the man then left,
how is it that I am still under arrest.

He committed it,
he did the crime
now in this cell, I must do his time.

How could I live my life in this cell,
if I could leave just for a day,
If I could be the one that got away!

It is heard in the goats scattered music,
the donkey's clatter on the concrete street.
The call of the shepherd to his crew of dogs
as they nudge the flock to sweeter grazing.

It is seen in the old men's quiet council
as they they talk up the past in the village square.
When you are on the high paths,
determined to beat your all time best.

That is the time to stop and rest.
Let the mountain's silence delay you.
Set your pace to the drifting cloud.
You may never make the cross on your map.
Its high time you were out of breath.

At the curve of the river
a new language, words higher
in tonation, a woman's voice
singing them in a paddy field.

Songs unfold like lagoons,
which the wind tries translating.
But the meaning stumbles, sinks
beneath rippled water, no proof
it ever reached other ears.

Language may alter with distance,
dangling sounds underwater like hands,
that pick sea anemones, shells, stones,
always diffused, always elsewhere,
where substance gets lost like flying fish
to vanish in a split second.
When you just thought you knew,
you see it gone
with the river, that runs into the sea.

How I long to set you loose
to range proudly over these
history-rippled fields.

In these streets buldings lean together
conspiring to block the afternoon blister.
An unknown artist is draped in shade.
Safe to work his cannister scrawl,
head high he covers the walls.

Nearby tapping mallets carved out daily prayers,
stone geometry perfect for a thousand years.
They bowed their heads with a deliberate fault.
Not hard for clever hands to stumble for their faith,
Living they believed in a completed shape.

But here God is not the conqueror.
Colour crazed signatures span the walls.
Identity displayed in a jagged dance.
Vowels and cosonants slip and slant.
Squirted rant of a damaged alphabet.

Old slogans promising pavement insurrection,
no more than footnotes on this smothered wall.
He has skulked in the gloom to declare his existence
but immortality would be a municipal slip.
He is scheduled to vanish in a chemical wash.

Butter Market, drinking
free coffee in the shade.

It did me a power of good
to undam this stillness.

Above my head a music played
on a linen-room radio.

Across the cobbled square
where the pigeons

doted on the stones
the full and lusty sun went beaming

gaily, and professional.
But old eyes soon returned

and I saw the babies push
their parents in their prams

and the busker’s voice
become a written echo

before the hour was up.
Then, as now, towards the end

a feeling came,
comes, comes again,

but not of grief
for I have knocked that back

before the agony.
What it is, in my lips

stays secret, like fire in flint.
Only the trees can share this.

They show their solidarity
with leaves.

Steel clad feet,crusaders bent on holy stabbing.
bonekickers scratching the broken battlements,
for clues to the Cathars who raised this fortress
to touch the cheek of heavan.
Now designer trainers under wobbling knees,
committed to geting our Euros' worth.
and the chance to breath-take at the postcard top.

Listen! Beyond our panting and pumping
there is another footfall still to be heard.
Folded into the punishing wind
the quick steps of heretics
running to their endura in the car park below,
absolving each other and dancing in the flames,
beating the Catholics at their own game.
My tired feet cannot comprehend their surefootedness

As a young man in modern times I declared there was light ahead.
Self-actualisation was the mountain to climb.
I scrambled up its glassy slope, wobbled on its narrow way,
Like Pilgrims Progress with something in the pocket.

No need to belong I was on the way to find myself.
Beauty at the touch of a button could be switched on later.

I reached the summit and stood in the sunlight
For one frozen moment looking like a propaganda poster.
The hunched creature inside me tried to stand straight
and pitched forward like a flightless bird.

Now I am back on flat earth I sometimes catch the old smell,
the clouds often cover the sun. I am learning a new way,
opening my hands and letting go.

The Ghosts
Of cool, ripe
Plums haunt
My stomach.

Forgiveness is
Granted, despite
Your lack
of thanks.

The Reply

Yes I waited all alone
Sitting by the telephone
Waiting as I did before
To hear your key turn in the door
Filled with jealousy and hate
Wondering why you're always late
Now I've dried up all my tears
And think of all the wasted years
I will not grieve for you unduly
I will end my letter with yours truly.

Outside I would have bawled.
In class, badge of honour,
sweeter than syrup.
So bit hard and swallowed deep.

Shiny black disc drawn from its sleeve,
another dose of Swan Lake?
No! The barely electric gramophone.
jumped and howled a new sound.

From the first shout of the trumpet
My hurt was tuned.
Rhythm in a hurry.
Each one played his own thing
in a joyful weave.

My pulse had hardly started,
the three minutes were at an end.
Disc lifted never played again.

In those days Jazz was never heard
except in dark cellars.
Bruisers barred a kid like me.
Tin can tunes is all they gave us,
abstained until old enough to choose.

Later I became cool, no air gutar for me
I would swing with Miles and Coltrane
You must have heard me on Kind of Blue?

I saw a photo of some old-timers
playing with their faces to the wall.
I remembered my classroom pain,
how those guys had played my tune,
and fifty years on still do.

What is poetry? No one knows.
It isn’t easy. As this ’poem’ shows.

“Wet paint”. “Keep off”. “This means you.”
Now you’ve touched it. You know it’s true.

Grass is green. Sky is blue.
No colour in a drop of dew.

Three Hundred Spartans in a heap.
Their reward? Eternal sleep.

Mountains high. Valleys low.
Who decided it was so?

Icarus said that he could fly.
His dad said sadly “I knew he’d die”.

Parrots whistle… Pigeons call.
My goldfish make no sound at all.

You, my reader, have wasted time.
By reading this quite pointless rhyme.

Babies gurgle... Lovers sigh.
Is this poetry…? Can pigs fly?

The holes aside their heads
Need charging every day
The aliens do this in
A most unusual way:

To keep heads fully-charged
The aliens carry around
A noisy small flat box
That makes a high-pitched sound

It tells them to connect
The box onto their brain
Recharging as they move
On foot, in car or train

The box gives life and voice
To aliens bizarre.
Energising life
Transmitted from afar?

The way we met? - well, you read it in books:
I have the style and he had the looks.
We met in 'Mark's' at the January Sale
And we both decided we liked the same towel.
But he bought it, they wrapped it, I turned to go,
He noticed, he followed and stopped me - and so
A lunch-date was mentioned - and where to meet
He'd be waiting in the corner seat.

Blast! I thought that I had heard a sound
It's the window cleaner doing his round:
With his bucket, ladder and chamois leather
And here I bathe in my own private lather!
He whistles and sings and gives me a wave
This is no way for me to behave.
I've sat here so long I look like a prune
And I'm supposed to be meeting my beau at noon.
The window cleaner goes on with his singing
The 'phone now joins in - continually ringing!
I jump out of the bath and dash to the 'phone....