| NPA 2004 |
Champion
of champions Eileen Hudson.
The first major literary prize of 2004 went to a Rochdale woman.
Eileen Hudson (58) was the 2004 UK Poetry Champion - voted for by over 200 prizewinning poets. A £1000 cash prize and magnificent trophy come courtesy of the National Poetry Anthology - now the biggest free-to-enter annual poetry competition in the UK.
Over 200 winners are selected every year by the organisers - United Press. Their poems are printed in the annual National Poetry Anthology and each winning poet votes for the best poem in the book.
“It’s a great thrill that so many prizewinning poets voted for me,” said Eileen. “I’ve been writing poetry for several years and have had some small successes - but nothing like this.”
Eileen, who is disabled from arthritis, recently sold the Rochdale based microlight business she ran with her late husband. “I still keep extremely active,” said Eileen. “I spend a lot of my time watercolour painting, writing poetry and also love to visit my daughter in London. I also love gardening and reading.”
Eileen of Bamford, is a former teacher at Rochdale College and Hollingworth High School in Milnrow.
For
the fifth 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.
INVISIBLE
Like
a scene from a film, in fuzzy monochrome,
he sits by the window, but no-one sees.
Grey
hair, grey suit, stiff collar and tie,
he’s going out, but no-one knows,
and he eats alone, crumbly bread,
and a bit of tasty cheese.
A crumb sticks to his lip, but no-one sees.
He’s
going out, but there’s no-one
to say goodbye to an old man,
frail as a dry twig, carrying
cake and a flask,
carefully wrapped like treasure.
In
the hospital, a regular visitor,
no-one notices this bearer of cake,
and love, sitting quietly,
holding the hand of his wife
whose mind has floated away.
Invisible,
unrecognised he shares his cake,
and no-one notices him leave.
Eileen Hudson, Rochdale, Greater Manchester
GHOST SHIP
I
could sail a ship; send it foam-breaking
To the greatest rogues of the deep.
Across
brave waves my sails would fly,
Like thunder-heads on this world’s rim; riding
The
spray of each crest. Sketch its wake
By stars that chink like the bright mail
Of
my armour; the last gasps and bursts of heroes
That sink, are sucked to this black-holing night;
Become myths before ever
My sun’s fierce pride
First burned.
And
my ship,
As brave to this sea as stars to the night, its bowsprit
Shall carry the last rage of the sunset
Like a maiden,
A goddess.
Gareth Roberts, Newbury, Berkshire
THE ENTERTAINER
He
was playing a Joplin rag.
Repeating the first bars,
as if he couldn’t move on;
as if he didn’t want us to move on.
Back
home with the sheet
she could take us A to Z.
A history of the bordello
on the upright, small hours
reeling under forty watts.
Out
there, memory shrugging by the
far wall, he went with what he knew;
kept on playing what he knew.
Deep
inside, he is playing still.
No more, and never less than I remember,
and at the table of ghosts we listen.
Measuring life. Marking time.
Tony Noon, Mexborough, South Yorkshire
DEATH OF A SOLDIER
He
stood by here
Heard the waves
Smother the rocks
Drag the shingle
Heard
the lone curlew
Call at ebb tide
Over Welsh sand.
Smelled the sea
Used
them for a well
In a hot place and dry
Carried our burden.
No more than a boy
James McKeon, Newport, Wales
SYMBIOSIS
It’s like this -
he makes her presents:
a
set of photographs
from their first developed film,
glued together and tied with string;
a
recycled jar of blank confetti,
the shapes from poem
she’ll never write;
and
on Valentine’s Day a single
transparency with a heart cut out -
he keeps the heart out of sight.
Perhaps
he gives her all
she wants, and he has all he needs;
she holds for him a prism -
he catches rainbow light.
Jennifer Elliott, Balmullo, Scotland
FOUR SHORT WORDS
“Six
months at most,” he quietly muttered
Incoherently I stuttered, disoriented, numb
My flowing tears I fought.
With
ground-eating steps I rushed for home
Head bowed, all alone
The laughter of strangers seemed thunderously loud
I, enveloped in a darkened cloud.
Stars
twinkled as if to mock my now-shortened view
A vapour trail hung suspended as if to taunt my own despair.
Courting
couples walked side by side
Parents with children and shopping abide.
Huddled,
alone, vague and bereft
Angry at their purposeful step
I wept.
No,
this could not be happening to me
Turn back that clock, erase those words
Set me free.
Gloria Hargreaves, Shepperton, Greater London
SWAN
His
beak’s a whittled
Carrot hammered home
Under the harlequin mask and the brow’s fierce pain
His
neck, a meat-hook
Gloved in polar velvet
Melts and bends in the frost-fire of his spirit
With
whiteness whisked
As stiff as a roast ghost
With sudden
Wingclatter
and angry admonishments
Of the flossed-up tail
Loudly he upbraids the elements
Till
(water and sky
Put firmly in their place)
He composes himself to float with a galleon’s grace
Anthony Watts, Taunton, Somerset
PURRRR
A
cold dark day:
A dark room in the process of renovation,
With a bare concrete floor.
Used as a storeroom for building materials,
It looks nothing like a comfortable living room.
But there is a fire burning,
Throwing out heat and the orange glow of flames,
To the cold, jumbled room.
In front of the fire, on a piece of cardboard
Sits a pale ginger cat,
Eyes half-closed in enjoyment of the heat,
Soaking in and savouring the warmth and glow.
Utter comfort.
Lesley Steadman, Lydney, Gloucestershire
THE CALAIS ROAD
This
is sad country,
horizon a long, long sigh
encircling endless pale fields -
squads of trees signal silently.
There
- and there again -
a low walled enclosure
a tall cross
a crop of white stones,
neat, orderly, military.
Grey
weeping sky long since
leached this blood-soaked earth.
No rain, no wind, can erase the echo
of that Somme-scream
from this exhausted place.
Jacqueline Dench, Gloucester, Gloucestershire