Philip Gross lives in Bristol, England and teaches creative writing part-time at Bath Spa University College. He won the National Poetry Competition in 1982 and was shortlisted for the Whitbread Prize in 1998. A number of his collections of poetry, including The Wasting Game (Bloodaxe), have been recommended by the Poetry Book Society .
Lesley Saunders is an experienced educational researcher, a published poet and translator of poetry, with seven published collections.
in addition, we are replacing our usual Open Mic section with a reading by our member John Arnold. John is a frequent contributor to to many prestigious poetry magazines. He has been a member of the Society for over 40 years. John and his wife are moving to Suffolk later this summer, and we felt it would be a fitting tribute to ask him to read for us. For many years he has played a major role in running the Open Competition, taking care of the publicity (a mammoth task). He also designs, prints and distributes copies of our annual programmes, and is responsible for getting the Folio published every year. As if that were not enough, he also organised the monthly members’ workshop rota. All this represents a huge amount of work, and we owe him a huge debt.
Please join us on June 18th. at 8.00pm for a three-course banquet of poetry.
Raymond has read and performed his poetry at festivals (Glastonbury, Latitude, BOCAS etc) to universities (Oxford, Goldsmiths, Warwick etc). He has won numerous slams (Farrago International Slam Champion 2010, The Canterbury Slam 2013 and was joint winner at the Open Calabash Slam in 2016). His poems have been published in POETRY, Poetry Review, News Statesman, The Deaf Poets Society, as well as in anthologies from Bloodaxe, Peepal Tree Press and Nine Arches. His poetry has appeared on BBC 2, BBC Radio 4, The Big Issue, The Jamaica Gleaner, The Guardian and at TedxEastEnd. Sky Arts and Ideas Tap listed Raymond in the top 20 promising young artists in the UK. The Fadar listed Raymond as a Writer Of Colour to watch out for.
Raymond Antrobus’s poetry has charmed and chimed with readers and audiences around the world. His poems articulate and explore questions of existence and identity, often around his Jamaican-British heritage, masculinity and d/Deafness, which aligns with his careful construction of poems as sound-objects as well as his interest in stories and voices often unheard.
Our guest judge and reader for April is Fiona Moore. Based in Greenwich, Fiona Moore has an MBA in organisational culture and a degree in Classics. In 2004, she left her Foreign Office career to write, working part-time for Excellent Development, a sustainable development charity specialising in sand dams.
Fiona served as an assistant editor for The Rialto for several years and is currently on the editorial board for Magma. She reviews poetry (Saboteur Best Reviewer in 2014). Her debut pamphlet, The Only Reason for Time, was a Guardian poetry book of the year and her second, Night Letter, was shortlisted for the Michael Marks Award for Poetry Pamphlets.
Her first full collection, The Distal Point, was published by HappenStance in 2018. It was a Poetry Book Society Recommendation for Autumn 2018, and shortlisted for the T.S.Eliot Prize.
We are moving back to our Vittle & Swig venue for the time being, after feedback from members. We will begin our meeting at 8.00pm. Fiona will announce the results of the Folio Competition, with readings of the selected poems from the members who contributed them. In the second half of the evening, she will be reading from her own work.
See you then!
FIRST: “August” by Alex Porter
History, of course, will fail to record
the drift of your breast to my hand
and the arc of your pale shoulder
through the sifting half-light of that last dawn.
Nor the cursive loops of our avid tongues
and the warm simoom of your breath;
not our giving and taking done –
nor your keening song to the rising sun.
Prudish to a fault, it will not set down
how you donned my Sam Browne and cap
to clown, naked, around the room –
teasing the sap in me until I spilled.
Or how you snatched back the shade and caught fire
then stopped, suddenly, as if stunned.
Stone-deaf, it cannot hear you say –
is not Sarajevo too far away?
SECOND: “The Waiting Time” by Simon French
The Waiting Time
We apologise that an earthenware sky
floods meagre light into the booking hall.
That no luggage will burst
with anticipation. Grass of the runway
is currently unruffled by tyre.
You are not permitted to take a turn
around the time zone clocks, see your face
ticking in each city’s distant hubbubs.
won’t be cluttering your ears, your mouth.
Should you decide to sit and wait
we’d like you to be aware
this is not an airport. This is something else.
No matter that you may wave
your passport or dream of sipping tea
from bone china of Boeing or de Havilland,
our customs and excise officers
have been unavoidably detained. Are unable
to explore you.
If you find yourself believing in arrivals
and departures, we would remind you
that the Ray Ellington Quartet
are providing musical enlightenment
in the control tower.
We do not sell Capstan or Pall Mall
should you contemplate inhalation
to steady your nerves.
May we take this opportunity
to disclose to you that starlings circle.
Our propellers are blooded.
you leave by the nearest available daylight.
This is not an airport.
THIRD: “Amy – Locked in” by Liz Eastwood
Amy – Locked in
Exminster lunatic asylum 1944 locked in
Blazing Trails Nursing Home 2018
locked in dementia
I stroke my dementia cat as the band
plays My Way I joke
with Elvis he kisses my hand
I see tracers glide bombs going off in
destroying my home in New Street
dog fights ash snows down I hide with
this home is hell I cry
take me to my bungalow
don’t make up those lies
I’m very well please let me go
Joe courts me dies on D Day
there’s this boy in the next town
Tom’s mother advises try Amy
I have his kids I mix up then down
at the home I try and try
to recall the man’s name
he cries Oh Mum cries and cries
who are you I fall in to my scream
I discover that Tom’s first love
has his baby I fall in to hell
I wish the child well he moves
our whole family to his nurse in Cornwall
in the home I know the worst
I was always a meek girl not brave
I would never speak up or go first
so that is how he managed to have
his nurse woman all our life
I slash out with war trench knife
I am a child around eight years old
I drive needles through my hands
see the scars? nurse falls cold
because father comes to my bed his
give me my pills the drug trolley rolls away
I must be ill my mind is locked for
FOURTH: “Hiraeth” by Jan Norton
Sometimes he dreams of that village by the sea
that clung to the cliffside, bruised by winter swell and wind,
rainbow doors, windows muffled by lace curtains,
scoured doorsteps, the stony chapel on the hill
that frowned down on the yawning morning streets,
the suck of surf on sand, the harbour’s open mouth,
the hiss of waves, thunder clouds loud on the horizon,
his father’s fishing boat, shrinking out of sight.
FOURTH: “Why We Did What We Did When We Did” by Ian Royce Chamberlain
Why We Did What We Did When We Did
because we could
swing through trees
sail against the breeze
take our chances in the dark
not having heard of consequences
broke down fences
started fires in silly places
like that party where the girl
got pregnant in the bathroom
tied the knots but cut the rope
came crawling back to say our sorries
did what we did all over
strayed like tomcats
dead-end tracks to not-quite-glory
swallowed everything on offer tasted nothing
thank you Leonard for that line
your wisdom wasted on us
made our beds and lay on them
in silence but not listening
scratched our stories in the sand
accepted that the tide would wipe them but
never guessed how soon
and now the beach is emptying
while those of us who’re left
in charge of everything we’ve learned
are somehow caught unprepared
to find the sun going down
FOURTH: “The Sea Children” by Madeleine Skipsey
the sea children
speak; hush child;
the waves will see you now.
an azure blanket offers
you more than just sleep.
it will whittle you down carefully,
lay you to rest
in a place we have yet to ruin
in a counterfeit suit
her, pushing your body
go, my love, go
the priest tells us that we will be forgiven
that it’s enough to be forgiven
he tells us the men in pressed shirts
talking on the television
mean well, are Christian at heart
if not on paper
and so amen to that
in the days before these
you could say there was peace
some days I am still waiting
for the funerals of people
who, in unison, danced
acrid smoke circles.
and now, konjo,
where are the bodies;
held hostage by sirens and seaweed.
FOURTH “A Lead Pellet” by Harrison Collett
A lead pellet
A lead pellet
pierces the wing
of a starling on the power line
and the schoolboys cheer
from an A-frame window
of a hay barn
they play Vietcong
with their B.B. guns
where the birds are
and bales of hay
the musty underbrush of Saigon
the bird tumbles
from its perch
to the asphalt below
to the schoolgirls
skipping with tight pigtails
their gazes skyward
another shot rings out
and pierces the other wing
the beast now
barely visible beneath
the dust and shadow
of its brothers taking flight
and the boys gallop
in tidy squares
to the beat of
a rope slapping
against the hard earth
and the feeble cries
of fallen zipperheads,
or rather bombers,
or rather simply
a bird into which
a little town
has poured its anxieties
The Judge’s Report – Ruth o’Callaghan
The Kent and Sussex Poetry Competition proved to be a hugely challenging task: to select one winner from one thousand seven hundred and sixteen poems which covered the whole gamut of emotion and experience. What was evident in each of the poems was the desire to share the thoughts, the philosophy, the learning from life – whether good or notso-good – the social concerns, ecological concerns, the warmth of a mother’s/ grandmother’s love, the rejection by friend or lover, an ekphrastic response to a gallery visit, a world viewed through surrealistic eyes or a simple description of a common garden flower…. A Herculean task indeed.
Approaching it necessitated re-assessing all that had been taught to me over the years, whether within workshops attended or workshops I lead – am always surprised how much there is to learn from the poets participating in our workshops. The different publishers’ advice amassed over a long span – both my own, those I work with through the venues we run and the course undertaken with the poetry editor of Faber over a decade ago – all were reflected upon, notes re-visited.
Poetry appears, when one is beginning, to be littered with ‘rules’. Basic instructions are given to every novice poet e.g. if possible do not use adjectives or if you have to employ an adjective make it memorable, flew into one’s mind only for that, too, to be questioned. Yes, too many predictable adjectives can destroy the poem as too many cheap sweets can destroy one’s gustatory perception. However, if one imagines the poem as a dish which reveals its different layers of herbs and spices, subtle sweetness balanced by a certain sharpness, and one is able to utilise an adjective, or even adjectives, in a similar manner then each one will justify its place within, and indeed, enhance the poem.
Similarly, an adjective need not be unusual to be memorable – a single, simple adjective, well-placed, can transform a line. This is the joy of poetry: the unity between language, resonance and the confounding of expectation.
And joy was in abundance in the reading of the poems in The Kent and Sussex Poetry Competition. I’d like to thank all the poets who submitted their precious words – adjudication of them taught me so much, furthered my own poetry horizons, made me a privileged member of this planet in ‘working’ with you all. Hopefully, we will work together again in other circumstances.
Thanks also to members of the Poetry Society Committee for the advice and guidance as to the rules of the Competition. Finally, I would like to say how mortified I am not to be able to attend the prize-winning ceremony on March 19th. I would particularly have like to meet with all the poets who produced such outstanding work. Unfortunately, I had a prior commitment which I must honour. I sincerely hope that you understand.
All good wishes
Ruth o’Callaghan 25th January 2019
First Prize: August by Alex Porter
The casual, matter-of-factness of the opening line both mirrors and heightens the sensuality in the following line. The reader is drawn gently into the precursor of love-making seen through the sifting half-light. Here, perhaps, is an example of two adjectives enhancing the noun. (Although half-light may possibly be deemed to be the noun) Had the poet merely written half-light, it would have been acceptable but rather ordinary. The additional sifting conveys the dream quality as their passion is aroused – eloquently conveyed through the graphic description of their tongues’ movements. However, consummation will be forestalled and the life-force left to spill uselessly – as, indeed, the last line reveals, that so much else will also be wasted.
Throughout, the poem hints at a certain darkness – there is keening and a Sam Browne and cap – associations with death and war – yet because she is dancing naked, teasing, we, on first reading, may overlook their import. Similarly, although line four states that last dawn, this may be attributed to the final days of a holiday – the impact muted by the description of their increasing intensity and the introduction of that wonderful word simoom. Nothing prepares us for Sarajevo.
Once given this information, further reading emphasises both the above clues, the significance of the title and the role of History – throughout the poem it is the dispassionate observer: in war it remains merely a chronicler of events. A cleverly constructed warm/chilling poem. Thank you for sharing it with us.
Second Prize: The Waiting Time by Simon French
Kafka-esque is the only description for this intriguing poem. The scenario is so familiar – that long drawn out wait in the airport lounge where we try to calm our nerves or not demonstrate impatience by raiding the duty free. However, the poet has twisted the usual perception of airport angst just half a notch transporting the reader to a strangely recognisable reality firmly embedded within the surreal.
The poem opens with a familiar/unfamiliar apology. It is, superficially, delivered to re-assure but reveals a world of menace which is rooted in the seeming adjustment of all that about which we have previously complained. Not only will our luggage remain intact but neither will we, islanders that we are, be bothered by foreign tongues – cheers from Brexiteers? – and those tiresome customs officers have themselves been detained and Are unable/to explore you.
There are no cheap cigarettes but there are bloody propellers caused, presumably by circling starlings – those augurs of the Roman gods – but whether the blood is human or bird is not specified. Feel for Charon’s coin in your pocket if you are unable to execute the final advice to leave but above all believe This is not an airport. This is something else.
Thank you for a riveting read.
Third Prize. Amy – Locked in by Liz Eastwood
From the very first reading this poem haunted me. The beginning is stark: a life locked in from childhood by ECT only to end in dementia. The dates give a seventy four year span wherein other destructive elements/events have pinned Amy as securely as the proverbial butterfly to a board every time she attempts to spread her wings.
Each episode and the circumstances surrounding them are sparsely, but pitilessly. recorded. Ironically, her one hope, perhaps, of happiness/normality was shattered on D-Day – the liberation of France results in further incarceration of Amy in a loveless marriage, betrayal and manipulation into living in the mistress’ house until I slash out with war trench knife
Visually this poem is judged exact allowing space for the – disregarded? -screams between the facts, the self reflection. The structure, moving as it does between past and present, in conjunction with the well-considered line breaks, emphasises the final shocking revelation
because father comes to my bed his hands
The poem ends on a disconcerting note – the enigmatic insight after the final pill of the day has been administered:
I must be ill my mind is locked in for another day
Fourth Prize. Hiraeth by Jan Norton
A stark contrast to the previous poem. This simple, short poem, executed in one long sentence, encompasses a man’s memory of his childhood, the village, the way of life and expectations of a small community that displays lace curtains/scoured doorsteps and is governed by a stony chapel….frowning down.
Whilst all sentimentality is cleverly avoided – despite it being a ‘picture postcard’ village. One slight observation: although the yawning streets are to be vaunted – placing that adjective in such close proximity to morning is a tad too reminiscent of Dylan Thomas’ description of Llareggub. However, the ordinariness of the following line redeems it somewhat whilst the unspecified threat within the penultimate line leaves the reader to ponder upon the relationship with the father and whether or not he is still alive. The final line takes the reader beyond the horizon – not simply regarding the father but the reader also. Thank you.
Fourth Prize Why We Did What We did When We Did by Ian Royce Chamberlain
Why did I choose what I chose when I chose it? Because I could Because the lack of punctuation forces all forward – there is no time for pauses in these lives Because it is a summation of an era, a generation who rebelled against post war austerity, fifties morality, explored sixties sexuality tied the knot but cut the rope/came crawling back to say our sorries and then did it all over again! Because it has the exuberance and the desperation of those who swallowed everything on offer tasted nothing Because it has Leonard Cohen Because it tells it as it was, is and captures the bleakness of what it will be as we are caught unprepared/to find the sun going down Because I really want everyone of a certain era to read this poem. Thank you. I do not know which generation you are but I have a suspicion!
Fourth Prize the sea children by Madeleine Skipsey
Lower case can be construed as a quieter form of text and it seems very appropriate for this this five verse poem beginning, as it does, with two contradictory commands speak; hush child;. Continuing with references to blanket, sleep, rest, one is in the land of nothing louder than a whisper. However, these are waves that are lulling you, drowning you. The chilling last line of verse one in a place we have yet to ruin firmly underpins that the root of all disaster that is to come is solely of our own volition.
Each verse is a vignette culminating in the return of the poem to its opening scenario – yet it has seemingly moved us once more to a different place with konjo – perhaps to Ethiopia, reminding us of the tragedy of that country. Thank you
Fourth Prize A lead pellet by Harrison Collett
One assumes that the setting of this poem is America with its references to Vietcong, Saigon and even the barn’s A-frame windows seems to uphold this impression. Together with schoolgirls who have tight pigtails and skip on asphalt, we are in the era of the Vietnam war which straddled two decades 1955-1975, the throes of which took son after son from grieving families.
Little wonder then that it is apparently an everyday incident for boys to enact what their fathers and elder brothers are enduring by taking potshots at a starling. Through the pain of this unfortunate bird, we are given the devastating agonies of a small town. The ingenuous fifth verse provides the volta and the reader ‘hears’ the beat of the war drum as the boys/soldiers crowd into the square to claim their victim – the principal victim being. of course, the townsfolk. Thank you
KENT & SUSSEX POETRY SOCIETY
OPEN POETRY COMPETITION 2019
We are pleased to announce the results of our Open Poetry Competition 2019, judged by Ruth o’Callaghan. The competition attracted over 1700 entries, and the prizes have been awarded as follows:
FIRST: “August” by Alex Porter
SECOND: “The Waiting Time” by Simon French
THIRD: “Amy – Locked in” by Liz Eastwood
“Hiraeth” by Jan Norto
“Why We Did What We Did When We Did” by Ian Royce Chamberlain
“The Sea Children” by Madeleine Skipsey
“A Lead Pellet” by Harrison Collett
Thank you for entering. Best wishes in your future poetry endeavours.