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Storms in Teacups, by David Smith

This poem by our member David Smith, was selected for and published in Folio #74, in 2020.

Storms in Teacups

(V’s Kitchen)

Tea brewed black in a red enamel pot,
companion piece to the whistle-topped kettle
that fills the kitchen from breakfast to bedtime
with steam.
Laughter. Always laughter.
Happy laughter, and the bitter-sweet blend
that’s brewed in tears
from fond recollections of safe-haven islands
in terrible stormy seas.

I didn’t know then how these days would stay with me:
they were just days, like all the others.
I didn’t know the loss of them then,
my world too small, my horizons too close
to see that far into the future.

Here was the place I learned about death,
learned that a train could steal someone away forever,
that fear of life could be greater than the other.
That lesson, and the smell of gas before the jet takes the match,
accompanied me through the years between
and all the worlds within them, and,
remembering,
I can find myself again in a dream of the time
when there was just one world,
filled with laughter and black-brewed loose-leaf tea
in a red enamel pot.

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Etiquette for Living With Angels, by Alex Toms

Etiquette for Living With Angels, by Essex-based Alex Toms (@LanguishingPoet), was Commended by judge Rishi Dastidar in our 2021 Open Competition.

Rishi remarked in his report that Alex’s poem ‘provides a beautiful description of how life with angels might be both ordinary and yet not’.



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Ghost, by Claire Collison

Ghost, by London-based Claire Collison (@clairecollison1), was Commended by judge Rishi Dastidar in our 2021 Open Competition.

As Rishi wrote in his judge’s report, Claire’s poem pulls off the remarkable trick of saying something new about the dead, with both a simple yet timeless observation, and tangible descriptions of scents.

Ghost

With thanks to Rocío Vázquez-Landázuri

When you told me how your freshly showered sister
smelled of Mozzarella—
and that memory wasn’t unpleasant as you described it;
I suppose a fresh, milky smell—
and how you smelt it again, visiting a medium
when you were the age of your now-dead sister

and the medium said it was because she couldn’t bear it,
you overtaking her—
and what a curious thing it is when the living
age, overtaking the dead, and all they can do
is emanate their signature scent—
white and creamy, floating in brine.




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We have put him in the cellar for safekeeping, by Rowan Lyster

We have put him in the cellar for safekeeping, by Rowan Lyster of Bristol was picked in Joint Fourth Place in our 2021 Open Competition by judge Rishi Dastidar.

This is what Rishi had to say about Rowan’s poem:

In ‘We have put him in the cellar for safekeeping’ by Rowan Lyster, a – perhaps misguided? – family have decided that for his, and the nation’s, benefit, David Attenborough must stay with them… whether this stay is willing or not is never made entirely clear, which gives the poem its unsettling power, and an opportunity for its bathos to paint darker shades: “Day 10, and somewhere behind the buckets / and deflated footballs, he has found earwigs.” That the poem is also a witty reversal on ideas of how we capture nature to preserve it only adds to its attractions.



We have put him in the cellar for safekeeping

When the door is opened, David Attenborough
blinks at the unfamiliar light, hair rippling
like dandelion fluff in the cool off the breezeblocks.
He shuffles backwards out of the way,
bumping into the faded camp bed.
David Attenborough has given up coffee
but Mum brews a new pot hourly anyway.
Dad builds him a table from Blue Planet DVDs,
removes the full, cold cups every evening.
The pink has begun to leave Attenborough’s cheeks.
Day 10, and somewhere behind the buckets
and deflated footballs, he has found earwigs.
Clasping a jam jar, he croons to himself,
soft as the brush of their legs against glass.




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Jimmy, by Deborah Thwaites

Jimmy, by East Sussex based poet Deborah Thwaites, was chosen in joint Fourth Place in our 2021 Open Competition by judge Rishi Dastidar.

This is what Rishi had to say about Deborah’s poem:

‘Jimmy’ by Deborah Thwaites is a morality tale of a mother trying, on Sports Day, to try to introduce her son to the fact that life is not fair: “’Everyone cheats in this world Jimmy it’s / dog eat dog out there.’” And yet Jimmy discovers himself – and maybe even happiness – in rejecting this deal. It’s an English Cool Hand Luke if you will, and the poem pulls off the enviable trick of being simple, relatable and funny.


Jimmy

It was sports day when he lost his faith,

put down his spoon and ate his egg.

His mother had boiled it that morning-

‘Everyone cheats in this world Jimmy, it’s

dog eat dog out there.’

So, Jimmy sat on the grass and peeled his egg,

flecks of shell sprinkled on his bare legs.

The other children laughed as they ran by

and pointed ‘ahahaha look at Jimmy!’

but he didn’t care.

He lay on the grass and looked at the clouds float by

and picked out shapes,

and pushed that whole boiled egg into his mouth,

closed his eyes

and knew that the world was different now.



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The Magical World Of The Strands, by Mark Harrison

The Magical World Of The Strands, by Mark Harrison (@MHristo) of Kent (and a member of the Kent & Sussex Poetry Society) was awarded joint Fourth Place in our 2021 Open Poetry Competition by the judge Rishi Dastidar.

This is what Rishi had to say about Mark’s poem:

Mark Harrison’s ‘The Magical World Of The Strands’, in five delicate stanzas takes us on a musician’s journey through Liverpool and its past, and their struggles to write and record a new album, while trying to pay sufficient and lasting homage to their heroes: “Arthur Lee and Nick Drake / Take turns to whisper in his dreams.” The hazy air is shattered by the final two lines, which I found devastating – not least because the story is a true one, and some of you will recognise the musician who inspired the poem.


The Magical World Of The Strands


On the corner of Clarence and Mount Pleasant
From up here in the studio, you can see the whole city
Beyond the river, New Brighton Sands and Port Sunlight
Toxteth and The Dingle looking south

Docking ships churn up the water
Pull out again into the bay
Towards the New World
All those names and faces

Two years to write and record
Nights turn into mornings
Blue and white collar everyday people
Walk past the Georgian windows

Bucolic strumming and brutal codas
Laughing, drinking and the needle’s damage done
Arthur Lee and Nick Drake
Take turns to whisper in his dreams

My last gig before plugs were pulled
In his city, on the New Strand in Bootle.
How’s Mick doing now, is he safe up there
Or has the furniture been sold again?





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Impossible Titles, by Marion Tracy

Impossible Titles by Marion Tracy of East Sussex was awarded joint Fourth Prize by judge Rishi Dastidar in our 2021 Open Poetry Competition.

This is what Rishi had to say about Marion’s poem:

Marion Tracy’s ’Impossible Titles’ is a bravura piece of conjuring, taking as it does a list of 23 potential titles for different poems, and leaving us as readers to piece together what a narrative might be when they are put together. That the titles in of themselves are so brilliant means there are multiple stories lurking here: ”6 Altercations  6 Consolations / The Extraordinary Laughter of Women” could be taken as something breezy or darker depending on taste, for example, and juxtapositions like that are to be found all the way through the poem. Each title has had ferocious attention to its sound paid to it, and overall it positively revels as it hits the air.

Impossible Titles


In the Midst of Despair my Right Hand shall Catch Angels.

10 Small Dogs Walking Across Sea Ice

Thrashing Tuesday out of the Night

Effigies & their Top Ten Hats

The Matthew Passion in Naked Doorways

Nocturne for the Left Hand

Unsent Love Letters

Some Viewers might Find this Upsetting

Local Reports of Explosions

First there is no Mountain, then there is.

A Wild Artistry of Birds

If a Plumber Rings Don’t tell Her about the Other Plumber

6 Altercations    6 Consolations

The Extraordinary Laughter of Women

Folderol, Hokum & Flapdoodle

The Orange Car is Not a Purple Car

A Baby can easily be created in a Small Service Cupboard

Occasional Wild Punishments

The Magnificence of Elephants

The Delicacy of Snails

Dark Empowerments and Failures

A Male of the Species can Easily be Recognised by his Dangling Right Foot.

The Inherent Futility of Our Actions. 




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california, by Kit Radford

california, by Kit Radford of Yorkshire (@kitrdfd), was placed third in our 2021 Open Poetry Competition, judged by Rishi Dastidar. Congratulations, Kit.

This is what Rishi had to say about Kit’s poem:

The third prize goes to Kit Radford’s ‘california’. This essays, in language by turns sparkling and yet freighted with darkness, a sketch of why the world’s eyes turn to the American state, its attractions and lures – especially the sense that it is where the future is made – and why this could be problematic: “every reckless teenage boy / now dreaming / of how he might destroy the world / with a single touch”. It is an immigrant story too, and this strand is exquisitely expressed, as are the costs of all this chasing after hope: “suffering quietly in meditations / and ugly carpeted prison cells / (disguised as san francisco real estate)”. The poem is powered by some deft line breaks which provide the platform for the gorgeous light-filled images that mean that, when the undercutting of them comes, we are left deliciously unmoored.


california

the sweetness made me sickly
and through all the smiling
i could not speak of where it hurt
the gold rush
transformed into opiates
with every reckless teenage boy
now dreaming
of how he might destroy the world
with a single touch
i did not realise when i came here
that of course
i am an immigrant
falling into all the same pitfalls
and bumps in the road
when the paper you carry says
you are of no value-
for a while i believed it
suffering quietly in broken meditations
and ugly carpeted prison cells
(disguised as san francisco real estate)
with a broken body
and broken mind
dreaming of the pain of america
to loosen its hold on me
but what you cannot escape from
in california
is the ceaseless beaming light
and for every broken cell that ruptured
found ways to repair itself
in golden love
for every gulp of petrol
there is a blooming lemon tree
and it is with full faith in bright citrus
and the shameless cry of colour from the magnolia tree
that there is hope
we may find a way out yet.

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Elegy for two placentas, by Vanessa Lampert

Elegy for two placentas, by Oxfordshire poet Vanessa Lampert (@nessalampert) was awarded Second Prize in our 2021 Open Poetry Competition, by the judge Rishi Dastidar.

This is what Rishi had to say about Vanessa’s poem:

The second prize goes to ‘Elegy for two placentas’ by Vanessa Lampert, attention grabbing from its title – I can’t ever recall seeing a hymn to the body part. The poem makes its case elegantly, with grace (“Made to be lost / when your work was done”), wit (“I should have said thank you, / though you could not have pleased me then.”) and a keen sense of the humdrum strangeness that bodies are: “Oh unlovely fate of the unlovely. Oh strange trees / of purple flesh and red.”, before resolving to an image that is a prayer of a quiet, intense loveliness, the ‘humble female servants.” This is poem as magic spell, efficient in conveying wonder and rapture, reminding you that the every day is actually quite special.


Elegy for two placentas

You were the image of one another.
Made of me, by me, two years apart,
entirely unearned. Made not for me,
in this body’s hidden wet, no thought of mine
was required. No gesture of praise
did I offer the two of you, that came through me
into the dry lit world. Made to be lost
when your work was done. Cast into light,
when I was blind to the miracle,
that circled back to give itself once more,
and found me yet still blind. Forgive me
for how it was, when the world was only baby,
and baby again. My only boy, my girl,
the world and every star. I swear, even the sun
seemed mine when you were all and softly done.
I was lost to him, and after lost to her.
How unpresuming you were.
Slipped into the room after they had come.
Quiet finale, no commentary nor ceremony.
I should have said thank you,
though you could not have pleased me then.
Oh unlovely fate of the unlovely. Oh strange trees
of purple flesh and red. Oh trees
that bore a single human fruit.
I know someone held you, someone else
the other of you, two years on.
I know they found you both complete and spent.
I had no questions. My body merely gave me
what I wished for. I didn’t want to eat you
or bury you beneath a moon laden with light.
I wanted to forget you, humble female servants.
Loyal other mothers that came from dark.





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The Mundane Borders on Evil, by Ryan Murphy

Congratulations to Ryan Murphy of Gorey, County Wexford, Ireland, who won First Prize in our 2021 Open Poetry Competition.

This is what the judge, Rishi Dastidar, had to say about his first choice.

The first prize goes to Ryan Murphy for ‘The Mundane Borders on Evil’. This is a startling poem of which takes as its jumping off point a simple cliché – a line in the sand – and then proceeds to explode and twist it, as it becomes an exploration of who is an insider, who is excluded, who is allowed to belong, the violence implicit or otherwise that is threatened to those who cross that line. All of this is achieved through its full-throated embrace of repetition of the word ‘sand’ – it becomes punctuation, but also revelatory as it swirls in and out of focus. The sound, of that word, and the ‘lions’ too, keeps jolting you, and you can feel the energy and tension building as the lines run into the tight constraint of the form, a single justified column, meaning when the poem explodes towards its end – “we shall make our stand and draw our lines for the sand is ever ours and ours alone” – its force is stunning.

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