National Poetry Anthology 2009

£1000 winner Ed (middle) receives his trophy from Peter Quinn with Gavin Hobson, representing Southport Library, looking on.

 

Four more winners published in the 2009 edition of the National Poetry Anthology were at Southport Library to help Ed celebrate his win. Pictured left to right, with Ed, they are: Joan Yates of Preston, Dorothy Parry of Southport, Stan Frankland of Blackpool and Dave White of Chorley.

 

THE LAND OF LITTLE PEOPLE

There is a land where children go,
Beyond the church and steeple,
To the edge of the world and back again,
To the land of little people,
Where roads are covered in chocolate cream,
Rivers flow with pop,
And forests abound with lollipop trees
With lots of cream on top.
There are woods and lakes and magic spells
And fairies in the park,
And elves and gnomes of every kind,
To chase away the dark.
It's a world of tears and laughter,
Which every child knows well,
The golden land of make believe
With its ageless magic spell.
But no one knows its whereabouts,
The direction that it lies,
Though the gateway's there for all to see
In children's shining eyes.

Ed Collins, Southport, Merseyside


Dear United Press,

At last I am once again firmly back on Terra Firma. This week has been a truly wonderful experience for me. I
have never been congratulated before about anything, now people are stopping me in the street to say well done.
I am more grateful than people realise for everything that has happened to me, for as you know I would never
have had my poem published had it not been for the poetry competition.
Now that I am back in the real world, and before I forget, I want to thank you, and your staff, for the courtesy
and kindness I have received, you'll never know what winning the competition meant to me, thank you.

Yours sincerely,
Ed Collins

The poems below are a selection from this year's anthology.



FIREFLIES

The luminescent beetle that was caught
within my two clasped hands would grant, you said,
my wish. But you, that Tuscan night, had brought
such turmoil to my soul that my poor head
could think of no sagacious wish. And so
my fevered brain spawned wishes that instead
were all too earthy for his magic glow
and too abstruse in their intensity
to heap on his bright wings. I let him go,
unburdened. He knew what his course must be:
His insect yearning, simple and entire,
was for the wingless glow-worm, urgently.
And trailing phosphorescence of desire
into the night he danced, his heart afire.

Turid Houston, Ashtead, Surrey


THE DISCHARGED SAILORS' AND SOLDIERS' ALLOTMENTS

He straightens up stiffly, a cough barks out,
Howitzer-like and he takes the recoil stoically.
He slowly stares at the rows of turned earth
And pensively pauses his chin on the slimed rake's end.
And now his mind's eye sees a far off earth,
A flooded lowland, a thick soup of wet mud, viscous.
Boots and puttees soaked, strangling his numb calves,
Caped and huddled against the ruthless, relentless rain.
He hears the cough and the thud of distant guns
And waits, poised and tensed to feel the shrapnell's tearings,
For the cries and the moans, the limbs torn off,
The chests and bellies shredded by shards of shell casing,
Of faces so well known. The cheeky grins,
Chuckles that never fade, even after all these years.
He stoops again, back bent to the dark earth
And smoothes and settles the shy sodden clods, lovingly.

John Roebuck, Holt, Norfolk



SKYLARK

A skylark flies up from the stubble
with liquid notes bubbling from its throat.
It rises higher, with wings shivering,
mouth open, throat quivering,
at the effort of producing such joyous notes.
Still ascending, the lark's song seems unending,
as each note blends one into the next,
until its warbling and trilling,
overflows and begins filling
the air around with pure refreshing sound.
Yet, even though the lark is soaring,
it continues pouring out its vibrant song.
Until, at the zenith of its flight
and set, in silhouette, against the light,
I just sit and watch and listen with delight.
And yet, I wonder,
does the lark send salutations to the sun?
Or is it joie de vivre, sheer exuberance and fun?

George Shipley, Mansfield Woodhouse, Nottinghamshire


SNOWSTORM OVER KILIMANJARO

How can the days we shared
Ever escape from my memory?
As beautiful as a snowstorm
Over the mighty Kilimanjaro
Replenishing the thawing glacier
If only for a fleeting while.
How can your memory ever fade?
I'll forever recall faraway eyes and lips
More fragrant than the sweetest ambrosia
But then at least I've explored
A magical land some never manage to view
As beautiful as a snowstorm
Over the mighty Kilimanjaro range
Yet now only exquisite memories remain.

Guy Fletcher, Cardiff, Wales



DOWN AND OUT IN THE CASTLEGATE

Sky swept sadness haunts the mind
And shoulders heavy with neglect
Huddle in the Castlegate in cold drizzled
Mists of grey granite.
Word tired mouths spit blasphemes
Across wooden benches
Their twisted bodies, folding
Like withered parchments
Drink the air around them
Their wine drenched lips
Kiss at nippled glass
Drip tears of meth blown madness
And feed at the city's alcoholic breast
With vacant eyes they stumble
Their reflections trapped in wet cobblestones
Fail to hear the echoes of worlds
That once belonged to them
She watches them, knows their wanting
Offers cold sanctuary among her pigeons
She the Castlegate, nurses her children

Josephine Duthie, Aberdeen, Scotland