| NPA 2003 |
Kent
poet Christine Masson.
The 2003 UK Poetry Champion was Kent poet Christine Masson.
Her poem, Thinking Of You, was voted best of 236 prizewinning poems. “I’ve been writing poetry for 15 years and had some small successes, but nothing like this," said Christine, a retired legal secretary who lives in Otford, near Sevenoaks.
Christine added: “I’m delighted at my success in the competition and surprised that so many prizewinning poets voted for me. I feel very honoured.”
For the fourth 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. Below are a few samples of the winning entries.
THINKING OF YOU
When
night’s black curtain starts to fall and darkness
wraps around me,
When mist is rising at river’s edge and fears and doubts
confound me,
I will not think of you then;
I do not think of you.
When
winter’s rage hurls up a storm with winds that will
not rest,
And rains that never seem to cease, my sanity will test,
I will not think of you then;
I do not think of you.
When
voices rant and rail at me and tear the peace
asunder,
Until my senses tremble and die and I feel I shall go under,
I will not think of you then;
I do not think of you.
But
when a glancing beam of sun is captured in a glass of
wine,
When music on a summer’s eve reminds me then of love
once mine;
I will think of you then;
I do think of you.
Christine Masson, Sevenoaks, Kent
A PUSS IN BOOTS
In
the high street chemist yesterday,
Upon a thoughtfully-provided chair
Beside a radiator, sat
A large and well-contented cat.
The
chance was far too good to miss
For one who loves a play on words,
So “Look, a puss in Boots,” I cried.
The
shopping zombies clearly thought me mad.
They turned, as only English people turn,
A blank and even hostile stare
Upon me, standing foolish there
As “Look, a puss in Boots,” I cried.
The
cat, however, stretched and purred
And blinked its amber eyes (which matched its fur)
And then, it turned and winked at me.
I’d
swear the creature winked at me
As “Look, a puss in Boots,” I cried.
Patricia Feinberg, Shoot-up-Hill, Greater London
THE MAN ON THE STAIR
No
more need for alarm clocks,
sleepwalking out of bed,
endless empty hours, pondering
moments long since dead.
Another
retiring day, reflective
Of ones in the past
My mind as youthful as yesterday
It’s the body that’s aged so fast.
I
stroll across the landing
the old boy lingers there
curious as to why he resembles me
Being older, with a lot less hair.
I
climb the spiral staircase
And he just copies me
He must be getting bored by now
Always staring back at me.
Joy O’Brien, Windsor, Berkshire
ONE STEP FORWARD
My
life has been a rollercoaster
Full of ups and downs
I’ve had my share of smiles
And a bucketful of frowns
It seems that through the bad times
My life goes off the track
I’m taking one step forward
But then two steps back
I wonder just how many people feel they have to run
From all the troubles in their lives, am I the only one?
I try to face my problems, and they stare back at me
It gets too much to cope with, but no one else can see
They ask me “how’s life treating you?”
“ Yeah great” I reply
They don’t see the heartache that’s hidden in the lie
Just when things are getting better
Something comes along the path
Tears the sun out of the sky, silencing my laugh
My dreams are always shattered, my heart begins to crack
I’m taking one step, forward, but then two steps back
Emily Hawkins, Yeovil, Somerset
NEIGHBOURS
We
watched a demolition team, at work out in the street,
Our eyes were filled with unshed tears, our hearts forgot to beat.
The little houses where we lived, were nothing now but rubble,
The little homes we loved so much had gone just like a bubble.
In
a humble back street, in London’s East End,
We were poor but happy, with many dear good friends.
Neighbours ever ready, with a helping hand for you,
When bad luck struck they’d be there, and help to see you through.
They
have forced us out to high-rise flats; our tempers have
been roused.
Neighbours scattered here and there, all of us rehoused.
To pull your roots up from the ground, when you’ve reached three scores
and ten,
It’s not an easy matter, to start all over again.
Anthony Diamond, Sutton, Norwich, Norfolk
SOMETHING HAS STOLEN MY FATHER
Sitting
vacant in his nursing home chair
Not knowing where he is
Who he is
Why he is
And my mother sits on the edge of his bed
With tear-filled eyes
Remembering his life for him
Work, holidays, kisses, hugs, love
And to him she’s a stranger
Yet somehow familiar
Perhaps.
It’s like mourning someone who hasn’t yet died
Visiting someone who hasn’t lived
Unable to share a thought or a memory
Anything.
And he just sits there in his nursing home chair
Frail, unshaven, in need of a haircut
And when my mother leaves
There he stays
Alone as when she was there.
Richard Fair, Glossop, Derbyshire
PERFECTION
Single
mum,
Council estate flat.
Screaming kids,
Overdue rent.
Dreams of the life she didn’t choose.
Grandma
of five,
Nursing home.
No visitors,
No care.
Dreams of the life she didn’t choose.
Fairytale
princess,
Castle in the sky.
Prince away on business,
Dragons need to be fed.
Dreams of the life she didn’t choose.
No
life is perfect,
No life is free from regrets.
But we’re the ones who make it work,
Who make the choices worthwhile,
Who can turn dreams into reality.
Melanie Dillon, Erdington, Birmingham, West Midlands
BEST THINGS OF LIFE
The
smell of the sea, the feel of the sand,
A faithful dog, as he licks my hand,
Trusting eyes, a baby’s smile,
A pot of tea, when I sit a while.
Sheets
all fresh, upon the bed,
A large soft pillow, to rest my head,
Fresh mown grass, the feel of the soil,
A long hot bath, after a hard day’s toil.
Outstretched
hands, when I meet a friend,
Having a garden, with flowers to tend,
Snowflakes falling, pure and white,
Stars atwinkling in the night.
Church
bells ringing, on Christmas day,
Come to church, is what they say.
But the best things of life to me are free,
To touch, to hear, to smell, to see.
Peggy Howe, St Asaph, Wales
DAWN SILENCE
The
Forth. By the beach we paused
To listen to the silence.
The night was fading, the day giving birth,
Haze over the grey blue sky,
But with such peace.
Until,
the forces of nature at work,
The chirp of birdsong,
Rabbits running, active rustling
Through young trees. Awakening.
Why
that silence, the sound of a perfect chord?
Nature from its slumbers cometh,
To be there, a minuscule part
No doubt in my mind,
Man’s oneness with that nature.
For
chance, too orderly too perfect,
Beyond transcendental reasoning,
Stood the individual and the absolute.
As that small hand, in mine, gazed on,
In awesome wonder.
Bridget Thomson, Edinburgh, Scotland
EMOTIONALLY DRAINED
Monday
8.45, postmasters face is glum, knowing at 9.05,
frustrated folk will form in lines, anxiously waiting for
payments, as they sign.
By closing time, he’ll be emotionally numb.
Harassed,
young mums, with crying children in tow.
Bellies raw, no food since yesterday.
Forlorn figures, waiting, for mum to get her pay.
Smiles till Sunday, then bellies raw, they’ll be low.
Unhappy
young men, motivation long gone.
Frustrated, shaking. no drink for two days.
Only day they rise, knowing that it pays.
Drowning sorrows, money is soooooon gone.
Elderly
ladies, hobbling in from the cold,
layers of socks warm, oh sooooo sore feet.
Patiently waiting, eyes searching for a soothing seat.
Pension risen by 10p, they are curtly told.
Forgotten
heroes feeling life has past them by,
showing a smile, while weeping inside.
Oh how they cling to their dignity and pride.
Wondering, how, they’ll exist till they die.
Christine Livesey, Blackpool, Lancashire
LANCHESTER RAILWAY STATION
Clouds
rise like puffs of smoke from a phantom train.
Large stones, lichen patchworked
platform edge and station buildings still remain,
Stepped gables, oriole window, waiting room waits no more.
No flower borders, picket fences, station master’s polished door.
Lines
uplifted, transport shifted, sleepers victim of the axe.
Mountain bikes and children’s trikes now usurp the
empty tracks.
High hawthorn hedge and sweet briar rose have witnessed
years of change.
Gone the shaking ground at their trembling roots,
the quietness is strange.
Afternoon
sunshine, dappled shading,
summer starts to take its course.
Children playing, straying homeward,
never saw the iron horse.
Margaret Allison, Consett, County Durham
ME AND THE TURNER PRIZE
If
you ever plan to visit “The Tate”
You will be aware of the big debate
Surrounding the meaning of modern art,
Putting the horse before the cart.
Exhibit
One was an unmade bed,
Comments on it are best unsaid:
Exhibit Two was some elephant dung
And a word for it’s on the tip of my tongue.
While
the latest thing, you could do it yourself,
Is a glass of water upon a shelf;
The title of it is beyond a joke
The artist named it “A Tree of Oak”.
He
says it calls for “creative thought”
And you’d be surprised how his work is sought
So I’m going to try this modern art
And I’ve got an idea that’s really smart.
It
consists of a box with nothing in it,
Created by me in about a minute
And I’ll let you in for a wee surprise
I’m putting it in for the Turner Prize.
John Thompson, Holywood, Northern Ireland