| NPA 2002 |
Pamela James.
Writing classes paid off spectacularly for Pamela James (70) when she was voted 2002 UK Poetry Champion.
Pamela’s winning poem was inspired by her work with a writer’s circle in her home town of Northampton. A retired secretary, she joined the circle seven years ago and has won several awards since.
Pamela submitted “The Terracotta Poet” for the National Poetry Anthology. “I’m honoured to think that so many prize-winning poets voted for me,” said Pamela. She was born in Taplow, Bucks.
For the third year in succession the National Poetry Anthology broke all records for the number of entries received. Thousands of poems poured in from writers all over the UK. Many had entered before but there were thousands of newcomers, all taking advantage of the opportunity to take part in this free-to-enter competition. Below are a few samples of the winning entries.
THE TERRACOTTA POT
Earth
fired,
it holds the heat of Tuscany,
the memory of oil and wine,
a summertime
of silver and of gold.
It
holds
a cache of sunflower seeds,
ripe olives
shaken from September trees
on gentle hills.
And
deeper still
there lies a wealth of days
and sunshine filtered through
a haze
of happy years.
Pamela James, Northampton, Northamptonshire
THE DEATH OF A VESSEL
Dark
mysteries long forgotten
And danger’s icy gleam.
The sands hold glories good and bad
And perils ne’er foreseen.
A
crushing, breaking crash echoes
On the far distant shore.
A sweeping flock of gulls follow.
A great ship is no more.
Above
the deep water of fate,
The moon watches in vain.
Silhouetting a dying ship,
As the sea weeps again.
Emma Chamberlain, Deal, Kent
THE WAKING
It
is the invisible gap
That tells our love.
It is the way our eyes gaze past each other,
In distinguished silence,
That speaks of our devotions.
It
is our hands missing
And gripping invisibility’s.
Muttering only the impossible,
That says this is love,
With more certainty
Than the darkness that engulfs me every night.
I
will wake up to the sun,
Touching my skin through the window.
I
will wake up to you,
Touching me with your words.
Holly Gibbs, Eastbourne, Sussex
FRAGMENTS FROM THE FIRE ESCAPE
Below
stars that fade into
City streetlight glow,
Thoughts twist amongst smoke;
Iridescent sparks of dreams,
Revelations, memories, skitter
Between blue grey layers.
Words billow into the sky
And descend to cover
Ash specked skin.
Eyes filled with tiredness
Trace the flare and fade
Of orange tinted embers.
Slow track of black down
Smooth flank of cigarette.
Night air cools around us,
Conversation dulls our tongues
But the evening will not
Let us go.
Victoria Old, Bodmin, Cornwall
HE PASSES BY
The
blind cannot see,
The deaf cannot hear,
Yet they all can show love with a touch.
The
dumb cannot speak,
The cripple can’t walk,
But they all show their love with a touch.
Then
pity the person with eyes bright and clear,
Who moves through his day self-assured,
The person who faces the crowds straight and tall,
Who has confidence, boldness and nerve.
When
there stands the man who is blindest of all
The ‘seeing’ with eyes blind with strife.
A stumbling, isolate, man on his own.
Who cannot touch people, or life!
We
can live if we’re blind,
Survive if we’re deaf,
And hobble on crutches, not legs.
But
the man who can’t love,
And the man who can’t touch,
Is worth less than the dust out in space.
Wilma Gravenor, Taunton, Somerset
THE CALL OF FIRE
His
lips brush tentatively against mine,
A first fading echo of summer’s wine;
Burning fire courses down through my scorched veins,
Drawing closer, relinquishing my pains;
Drowning deep each other’s stains.
Gentle
touch, large hand against neck and cheek
Transmits through caress more than he could speak;
Utterance unsaid of complete respect,
A tender desire, no more to deflect;
Emotions pool and collect.
Inadequately
expressed beyond words,
He, the fiercely-sweet melody of birds,
Leaves my soul tingling, lips loudly ringing;
Walking away, my heart won’t stop singing;
Not able to stop grinning.
Not
ever before has this felt so right,
Through joy and all peace, and sobbing at night;
Not ever before, never quite like this,
An awakening of such
Sweet sweet fire given by my lover’s kiss.
Anna-Louisa Cook, Sea Palling, Norfolk
HER SELF
The
mantle of her sickness
hung about her shoulders
like a shawl. Her cough boiled,
her knuckles were tight and gnarled.
She crocheted silence
fingering every loop.
The moon on her clock face rose.
Louise Glasscoe, Buxton, Derbyshire
YESTERDAY
I
only have to set eyes on you
and that’s good enough for me
the overcliff’s winding path
leading down towards the sea
sunlight shimmering onto a turquoise surface
waves racing towards the shore
it’s wonderful to journey back
to this place once more
golden expanses of sand
stretching as far as the eye can see
past reminders, so heavenly
I can’t but help daydreaming
whilst I simply stare
what became of the child upon that beach
now but a shadow with golden hair?
Katherine Parker, Wolverhampton, West Midlands
IF ONLY FOR A NIGHT
Let
me drown in your complexities
If only for a night,
and step outside of space and time,
If only for a day.
Let
me think that you were always mine,
It was always meant to be,
and put away all life before,
If only for an hour.
Let
me brush you with my unseen kiss,
and wrap myself around you.
Let me trace my essence on your lips,
and feel you in my soul.
Let
me touch your mind and merge with you,
If only for a moment,
and forever feel that this was life,
and we lived it to the full.
Mary McManus, Blackburn, Lancashire
PERFECT WORLD
When
I have gone to another world.
When I’ve popped my clogs
And my toes have curled.
I’d like to come back in the form of a cat,
But I’d like some conditions with that fact,
For I want an owner just like me,
Someone who’ll buy fresh fish for tea.
A fresh pork sandwich for my lunch,
I won’t be greedy but that won’t be brunch;
For I’d eat plain cat food at the start of my day,
When I’d get lots of hugs and love, then I’d play,
But an owner like me? Well what else can I say?
That situation would be purrrfect.
Susan Higgs, Thirsk, North Yorkshire
THE RIVER
The
wind blew softly the last time.
Then we were together and fed the bold
and noisy ducks, feeling as immutable
as the river but the river still flows
and now I walk alone.
The
weak sun finds a small crack
in the wintry, grey-stained sky
and the iridescent water changes to
a dazzling yellow before more clouds come
slashing
rain into the pregnant river.
It gushes angrily, a silvery-brown fiend
which bursts its banks, threatening
to excrete slimy sludge into nearby homes.
The
river has a wild beauty today
but I’m lost in a summer far away.
Guy Fletcher, Pantmawr, Cardiff, Wales
THE ANGELS OF BEN BARRA
In
the delicate woods of spring
Bright with battalions of bluebells.
I can hear the forest breathing
Like the wings of distant angels.
From
the west comes a slender wind
Where Ben Barra troubles the sky,
Emerald and Sapphire sequinned
Where the sun’s golden legions lie.
Here
I can see Erin’s threshold
And the shadowy marble seas,
Lapping low as beauty unfolds
A fragile haze among the trees.
And
here whilst young, they stood dreaming.
Robed in mist that the dawn expels,
And now only their soft haunting
Like the wings of distant angels.
Martin Magee, Craigavon, Northern Ireland
ST ANDREW’S HARBOUR
Midnight
at the Kinness Burn
eiders ride at anchor and a ghost
heron stalks his own reflection
creel boats jostle at the pier
the ebbtide chuckles round their bows
I
fold this vision inward,br> and seal it against time
that heron who has speared the moon
and swallowed a piece of silver
Kirk Saunders, Inverness, Scotland