| NPA 2008 |
A poem has earned Roy Lewis £1,000 and the title of UK poetry champion.
Roy (73) of Merthyr Tydfil, has won the £1,000 first prize in the UK’s biggest annual
free-to-enter national poetry competition.
“Roy’s prizewinning poem is evocative and eerie,” said United Press Managing Director Peter Quinn, who made the
presentation. “It is a beautifully crafted piece of gothic poetry in the mold of Edgar Allan Poe. It’s a really
worthy winner in a competition which has grown bigger every year and culminated in this - the best and biggest
National Poetry Anthology we have ever produced. There are 290 winning poems in it this year and the standard is
better than ever.”
Roy said: “I realised that this competition is a great opportunity for aspiring poets. It’s free to enter and has a
big cash prize. I told myself - I can do that. I might as well try, because I’ve got nothing to lose. It was a real
shock when I was told I’d won. To be voted for by almost 300 other poets is a very humbling experience. I’m absolutely
stunned.”
Tens of thousands of poems were entered for this UK-wide annual competition which began in 1998, aimed at unearthing
new poetry talent. Roy receives the cash prize of £1,000 plus a magnificent trophy to keep for life.
Out of all the entries that are submitted every year over 250 are picked to represent different regions in the UK and
all are printed in the annual National Poetry Anthology. Each author receives a free copy of the book and votes for
the best poem in it. The author of that poem receives £1,000 and a magnificent trophy to keep for life.
Entries are now being accepted for the next National Poetry Anthology. All you have to do is send up to three
poems on any subject (160 words and 20 lines maximum each) to United Press, Admail 3735, London, EC1B 1JB by the
annual closing date of June 30th.
Roy’s poem was inspired by a photo he took of his wife. Roy has been writing poetry for 50 years and has been a keen
photographer for over 20 years. He has exhibited his photography for several years and has had a number of solo
exhibitions. “I love to write poetry because it expresses things that I can’t say in everyday words,”
explained Roy.
Roy (73) of Merthyr Tydfil, has won the £1,000 first prize in the UK’s biggest annual free-to-enter national poetry competition.
“Roy’s prizewinning poem is evocative and eerie,” said United Press Managing Director Peter Quinn, who made the presentation. “It is a beautifully crafted piece of gothic poetry in the mold of Edgar Allan Poe. It’s a really worthy winner in a competition which has grown bigger every year and culminated in this - the best and biggest National Poetry Anthology we have ever produced. There are 290 winning poems in it this year and the standard is better than ever.”
Roy said: “I realised that this competition is a great opportunity for aspiring poets. It’s free to enter and has a big cash prize. I told myself - I can do that. I might as well try, because I’ve got nothing to lose. It was a real shock when I was told I’d won. To be voted for by almost 300 other poets is a very humbling experience. I’m absolutely stunned.”
Tens of thousands of poems were entered for this UK-wide annual competition which began in 1998, aimed at unearthing new poetry talent. Roy receives the cash prize of £1,000 plus a magnificent trophy to keep for life.
Out of all the entries that are submitted every year over 250 are picked to represent different regions in the UK and all are printed in the annual National Poetry Anthology. Each author receives a free copy of the book and votes for the best poem in it. The author of that poem receives £1,000 and a magnificent trophy to keep for life.
Entries are now being accepted for the next National Poetry Anthology. All you have to do is send up to three poems on any subject (160 words and 20 lines maximum each) to United Press, Admail 3735, London, EC1B 1JB by the annual closing date of June 30th.
Roy’s poem was inspired by a photo he took of his wife. Roy has been writing poetry for 50 years and has been a keen photographer for over 20 years. He has exhibited his photography for several years and has had a number of solo exhibitions. “I love to write poetry because it expresses things that I can’t say in everyday words,” explained Roy.
Roy receives his trophy from Peter Quinn (left) who is holding the photo which inspired the poem.
Roy’s wife, Ena, is holding the £1,000 cheque and on the right is Celia Thomas, another of the 290 winning poets
who featured in this year’s National Poetry Anthology. Press and civic dignitaries including the town’s Mayor,
Alan Jones, were at the the presentation on Friday 22 February at Dowlais Library, Merthyr Tydfil. Peter Quinn
presented the trophy and cheque.
LADY IN RED
He glanced at the picture that hung by a string,
Then looked again at the lady within,
So aloof, yet alone, so silent, withdrawn,
An impression so gentle, yet sad and forlorn.
In misty surroundings she walked through the wood,
He longed to be with her, if only he could.
Alone and lonely, walked the lady in red
With a scarlet umbrella to cover her head,
Lovely and lonely like a painting of old,
A picture to hang in a frame made of gold.
A picture of dreams, so vague yet so deep,
Does she laugh? Does she cry? Does she sigh?
Does she weep?
His chair is now empty, he’s gone from the place
Where he gazed at the lady dressed in crimson and lace,
But glance at the picture and then look once again,
Look past the umbrella that’s shielding the rain,
Look through the mist, just past her head
And you may see him waiting for the lady in red.
Roy Lewis, Merthyr Tydfil, Wales
The poem above is Roy Lewis's winning entry.
Those below are a selection from this year's anthology.
LAKELAND
Below the storm-tossed northern hills
where Vikings made their home;
Grizedale, Thwaite and Bloody beck
the Norsemen tilled the loam.
Roman forts and megaliths
dot these ancient fells.
While far beneath the mountain’s rim
lakes rise from mighty wells.
As Saddleback and Skiddaw peak
thrust towards the sky,
Rainswept bursts of swirling cloud
and lighting flash on high.
Thunder rolls across the heights
like heaven’s awful wrath.
Shifting ice-bound goblin mists
hasten in its path.
Far above, the storm god, Thor,
revels at the sight.
While all around darkness falls
as twilight turns to night.
S Raymond, Southport, Merseyside
AFTER WATERLOO
Where are they now, those fine lords and ladies
Who danced yesternight at the Duchess’s ball,
Heedless of men drawn warm from their billets
To tread the wet earth at their regiments’ call.
And where are now those burghers of Brussels,
By news of our march drawn all to the street.
To watch us fifed on in our rich blazoned columns
With drums beating time for the fall of our feet.,
And where are they now, our following army
The wives and the sweethearts, matrons and maids,
And wither our corps of gamblers and hucksters,
Harlots and bankers all plying their trades.
Where are they all, now the action is over,
For them we braved round shot, bore bayonet’s thrust,
Now our columns are broken, our bodies lie bleeding
And friend next to foe lie conjoined in the dust.
Swift they are gone for our death carries meaning
Gone to seek fame or the stock-jobber’s hall,
Gone to assess the wild swings of fortune
Gone to get wind of the next easy call.
Roger Baker, Whitecross, Herefordshire
THE MAN WITH TATTOOED EARS
I bought fruit from the man
With tattooed ears
By the box of begonias,
Deep lines on his face,
Sparkly eyes.
What a mornin’, he said
All my boxes o fruit
Fell ont' flowers int' night
Crushed half of ’em
And now bills ter sort.
Ah well, bugger it, eh lass.
I like the man with tattooed ears.
I walked away smiling
And feeling hopeful somehow
About tomorrow.
Angela Jenkinson, Wollaton Park, Nottinghamshire
THE BEAUTY OF DEATH
Above my head the shades unfurl
Subtle and soft as mother of pearl
From palest peach and tangerine
To golden ochre laced with cream
Deeper and deeper, the colours spread
From burnished bronze to vibrant red
Like some enormous passion flower
A defiant show of waning power
Then a change of mood ensues
As the colours change to greys and blues
Suggesting pounding surf on piles
Of rocks on the coast of the western isles
This majestic pageant’s final scene
Is of velvet darkness, calm, serene
The beauty holds me, makes me stay
As I stand in awe at the death of a day
Dorothy White, Whitecrook, Scotland
ANOTHER DAY IN BAGHDAD
It’s just past nine, Baghdad time
And Bush’s junkyard dogs
Are out on the attack.
Cherry picked, half-mad bloody tyrants
Sit playing with a pack of fear cards
In the blood and the dust
While the moon-crazed Masters of Death and Despair
Sit alone in their tower
And muse over the next Speciality of the Day
Intestinal pain
Severed limb
Broken soul
It’s just past nine, Baghdad time.
June Dormer, Scarborough, North Yorkshire
IN A SOHO STREET
A man who sits and waits to die
Who bears a tear stain for an eye
Is so ashamed he ever heeded,
The cruel and bleak prosperity lie.
He’s never been afraid of work,
Is young but infirmity steadily creeps,
And one mistake has spiralled him down,
To the rancid pavement, on which he sleeps.
He’s free to roam anywhere he chooses,
provided he pays with flesh from his heels:
With the pity of others his pride he loses -
No one asks him how he feels.
As evening cloaks each possession he owns,
He hopes for charitable passers by:
They feel the chill which bites his bones -
Yet everyone vows not to meet his eye.
If you ever see him peaceful and sleeping,
Respect his world bundled on the ground:
And if you can’t or won’t offer him help,
Don’t step over - tiptoe round.
Wendy S Harvie, Welwyn Garden City, Hertfordshire