Competition winners and commendations
Winners:
1. "Too Late"--Michael Crowley
2. "The Sunken Lane"--Phoebe Nicholson, Oxford
3. "Donnington Bridge"--Maeve Henry, Oxford
Commended:
"Sprouts"--Alexandra Davis, Suffolk
"The Great Days of Tumbling"--M.A. Fiddes, London
"Sewing the Light"--Geraldine Clarkson, Leamington Spa
"Laughter"--Josh Ekroy
"Brain Music"--Averil Stedeford, Oxford
There will be a reading in the Albion Beatnik Bookstore on Saturday 26th September 7:30 PM.
The Albion Beatnik address is: 34 Walton Street, Oxford. OX2 6AA. Click here to go to a map of the location.
Below is the Judge's Report from Pat Winslow, and some of the poems.
Winners:
1. "Too Late"--Michael Crowley
2. "The Sunken Lane"--Phoebe Nicholson, Oxford
3. "Donnington Bridge"--Maeve Henry, Oxford
Commended:
"Sprouts"--Alexandra Davis, Suffolk
"The Great Days of Tumbling"--M.A. Fiddes, London
"Sewing the Light"--Geraldine Clarkson, Leamington Spa
"Laughter"--Josh Ekroy
"Brain Music"--Averil Stedeford, Oxford
There will be a reading in the Albion Beatnik Bookstore on Saturday 26th September 7:30 PM.
The Albion Beatnik address is: 34 Walton Street, Oxford. OX2 6AA. Click here to go to a map of the location.
Below is the Judge's Report from Pat Winslow, and some of the poems.
1st Prize Michael Crowley
Too Late In the governor's office, I have no questions. I've slept well since I got the news - no more phone calls from custody sergeants, people he owed money to barking at the door. He checks his notes, Shall we go over? Never ending lawns, well-kept flower beds, two prisoners throwing grass at each other. A pack of seagulls fighting outside the wing. One swoops down, its beak open; I can see its tongue. They hand me his clothes bagged and sealed. The cell like his bedroom the day I turfed him out. He'd leaned forward, the sheet around his neck. A boy collecting laundry stares in on me, edges his cart forward another door. Beyond the window, conifers and hills, one of those early winter sunsets, raging. 2nd Prize Phoebe Nicholson The Sunken Lane Hunting country – I think of how you taught me to always say ‘good night’ in the passing places no matter what the time because to do otherwise implies that you or they are going home early. So I said ‘good night’ as I passed them in a hollow way, far from where we’d walked when I was small. And yet smallness gloams, insists in me between the banks. It’s not yet 4, but practising night in the cool curl of treeshade. The slaked graves on either side are not soundless – do not sleep. They creak and open to arms of roots. Animals rummage their own maps of home and dirt and danger, and twitch away as the hollow way is stepped again. The flood-opened graves hold no fossils. The animals have unburrowed them before they could set and rest and press and press. They irk the banks – disturb and bloat, and, like swollen glands, they close the throat. Passers are penned in. The land underwater in grim clay, crimped as a riverbed’s. But we know how to follow the hollow way through. We know fossils do not settle here. We have seen the bootprints of now-dead men, hoofmoons, fresh as yesterday’s. We can tap out the tracks of earth sliced by passed feet or by young fingers tugged through the mudbanks. We know these are not fossils but the rebirth, carve and make. And you, my father, who will never see this place, have dragged it deeper too, have worn it with the weight of you in my bones, in my voice, as I walk here. Third Prize Maeve Henry Donnington Bridge is not a romantic place on summer evenings but it’s human to stop. Not for the view of sea scouts wobbling in yellow kayaks and geese crash landing on the dirty Thames, nor to slip through the gap onto the towpath and head up to Binsey or down to Iffley Lock where the bridges are old and quiet. No. Stand here with the choking noise of lorries at your back, because tagged on the underside is a name, a date, matching the withered flowers tied to the rail where on an evening hot and fine as this she climbed, steadied herself, then jumped hand in hand with your boy, nearly a man, too nearly a man to whisper he couldn’t swim. Commended Josh Ekroy Laughter At first I am glad the other women, some of whom wear no shoes and come from many countries, are laughing in this sunless room with its high oblong windows, because I haven’t heard a female giggle for a year. The happiness holds me and, enchanted I am crying tears of celebration but quickly realise they are pointing at me because I called the police. What did you think they would do - save you? They arrested you because they could. I submit to their eager voices, but can’t keep up with all the tricks I should have learned by now. My smudged face makes them laugh so loudly I see the crosses of back-teeth fillings. They’re not unkind but bored, knowing only those things I can’t understand. Uniformed women watch me buy food from the store in case I take a tin and monitor me in the shower because I said I would rather die than return. I don’t know how anyone would hang themselves in a shower, you would have to find some rope or wire and when I tell them I have neither they laugh without pleasure when walking away. I observe their calm and try to guess its secret. I have told my story a thousand and one times to different people and each time my mind runs aground and I am hollowed out so I begin to think it would be better to find the men who brought me. There is a lawyer who helps but when the judge pronounced that I should board a plane back, he said we will fight this decision and smiled at me which made me afraid for him. Commended M. A. Fiddes The Great Days of Tumbling You were a barrel of myths rolling down Glastonbury Tor jangling up Fata Morgana and Jagger. Lime leaves flickered quick as grass snakes slipping through the dawn Mendips where the sun yolked the sky like a great fried breakfast. Pickled Merlins haunted every pub, tawny pints as wise as owls perched in their grip. Here you bundled in munching Golden Wonders, mastering the slow tock of darts and billiard tick, protégé of their chalk subtracted lunchtimes until you pitched up kissing the vicar’s niece who bewildered you with her gusseted etiquettes and the eternal disco truths of Donna Summer, moaning through the cider in tongues of Moroder, trapped between straw bales with martyred arses hastening each cautious impregnation. And now you’re squeezed between a mortgage and an overdraft as fear marches on the backs of ants through every crack into your family home. You’re ticket number 109 on banking death row yet what terrifies you is not the cliff’s edge but having nowhere left to fall. Commended Alexandra Davis Sprouts for Nell Whenever I peel them I channel her. I remember her vast lap spread, like a proving bloomer, over each side of the wheelback chair, her warm body swelling between the spindles. The grocer’s evergreen net would empty, sag, next to a carrier bag set for peelings. Hands busy with the stubby knife I see her slicing off the base, adjust the blade, her curved forefingers always pointing, made for knitting needles, pare away the papery leaves, her nails neat and slender as a model’s, each half-moon peeping. I didn’t inherit those nails. Her mind elsewhere, each mouldering lump, through some quicksilver handicraft, became a jewel in her hands; finally carving its cross with artisan care. So as I peel I smile; a task that always brings her close to me. A tiny cabbage, no matter how mud clad, will end as green as paradise. Wrapped vacuum tight, squeaking against my thumb, it sits in my palm like a ready brain, glossy and new veined, painted with a single rat’s whisker, delicate as an eyelid. Each Christmas he brings me, with high ceremony, the Brussels Tree! I marvel at the object, at its impossible rigidity, built like an alien colony. Strong stalk, thick and perfect; each offspring pert and perpendicular, gravity-mocking and jaunty, locked on like a suckling baby, or ribs from off the spine. Leaves within leaves, furled, waiting for my peeling hands. My lap, now roomy, holds dusty curls and bright green pearls, each marked with its cross, till heat will turn them yellow. |
Pat Winslow's Judges Report
Some poems tried too hard to be poems. Some poems didn’t try at all. Some poems were really engaging and held me to a final line which ruined everything. One poem had 13 lines that were bursting with exuberance and imagination and at least ten of those lines will one day make ten brilliant poems, but at the moment it’s only a list. Some poems were mediocre but were distinguished by a remarkable image that stayed with me for ages. Others were about really interesting things but didn’t have anything interesting to say about them. And some poems had the poets’ identities included, so they disqualified themselves straightaway. Having said all that, this was a tough batch to judge in many ways. The overall standard was high and clearly, most entrants had a thorough knowledge of poetry. I was pleased to see people experimenting with form and shape and glad to see prose poems amongst the entries. Whilst the ‘sorcery of women’ got tedious, there were other poems expressing tremendous humanity and though they didn’t always make it to the short list, they moved me greatly. Then there were ‘angst poems’. I am not a fan of these. I write them myself from time to time. They’re for personal therapy and they help keep me sane, but they are not competition winners, never mind publishable. There was also, curiously, a poem so closely resembling one from my most recent collection, it even kept the same form. Spooky. Finally, there were groups of poems I wanted to see in a collection or in a magazine, but individually, they could not be winners. These poems work best when they are part of a wider portfolio and they are all the more treasured for that. The poet I’m thinking of here is already in print online and widely known through performance and workshops. Anyway, here are the results, in reverse order. There are five runners-up. I really enjoyed ‘Sprouts’. I shall never forget this woman spreading ‘like a proving bloomer’ over the chair or the sprout ‘like a ready brain’. Marvellous attention to detail. ‘The Great Days of Tumbling’ had terrific energy. I have no idea what ‘gusseted etiquettes’ might be, but it didn’t half make me snigger. Great youth and vitality here...in hindsight, I suspect. ‘Sewing the Light’ captured an entirely different quality. Bitterness and regret and the art of survival. The last line reminded me of Heaney’s ‘A four foot box, a foot for every year.’ ‘Laughter’ was intriguing and this is a poem I’m still coming back to. I don’t fully understand it. It’s like a bad dream you can’t wake from. There is some good close observation here, too – ‘the crosses of back-teeth fillings’ – and the feeling of separation is almost overwhelming. ‘Brain Music’ is probably the most simple of all the entries that came in, but simplicity can be extraordinarily eloquent. This poem talks about symmetry and it is, in itself, a symmetrical piece. I really like the economy here. All the poems I have selected have a physical presence, I suddenly realise. They are shaped for the page as well as for sound. There is something enormously satisfying about this. In 3rd place is ‘Donnington Bridge’ – another poem that is direct and concise. I very much like the way this opens out from the title and impels forwards to the last line. This is a poem that knows where it is going. You couldn’t have imagined the ending, either, not until you reach the withered flowers, certainly. Even then, you could not have guessed the final three words. This is very assured writing. ‘The Sunken Lane’ wins 2nd prize. This poem uses repetition to reinforce habit, recurrence, the comings and goings of animals, people and rain. And should you be questioning the use of ‘gloams’ the Shorter Oxford can vouch for its use. I like the way this poem takes time to develop. I like the way it settles then moves on. It is textured, too. This is a poem about the passage of time and, ultimately, inheritance. The poem that wins 1st prize singled itself out very early on for me. I enjoyed all the entries from this poet, but ‘Too Late’ claimed its place immediately. Again, there is great simplicity, but look at those lines; they’re loaded. The complete absence of emotion tells you that there is great emotion. Each moment is like a scene from a film. The word ‘boy’ is key. Until this point everyone has had a label, but here we have a child, someone with his whole life ahead of him. The final two lines seem almost dismissive; they’re not, of course. The speaker has seen too many of those sunsets and he’ll see plenty more. The last word is perfectly balanced. Here is your emotion/his emotion/everyone’s emotion. This is quite a perfect poem. Pat Winslow August 2015 |
Back Room Poets first international poetry competition, opening February 14, 2015, for submissions!
Poems may be up to 55 lines.
First Prize: £400
Second Prize: £150
Third Prize: £50
Five £10 commendations
All winners invited to read with the judge at the Albion Beatnik Bookstore in Oxford, 26 September, 2015.
Submissions close June 7, 2015 (postal submissions); June 21, 2015 (online submissions).
We are honoured to have the noted and successful poet Pat Winslow as sole judge. Pat Winslow worked for twelve years as an actor before leaving the theatre in 1987 to take up writing. She has published seven collections of poetry including Kissing Bones, Unpredictable Geometry and Dreaming of Walls Repeating Themselves, all with Templar Poetry. Pat has recently finished a poetry and music project with Oxford Concert Party, Crisis and the Ashmolean Museum. She is also a celebrant for the British Humanist Association. For further information visit www.patwinslow.com .
Please read the rules and submissions information below before entering the contest:
RULES AND SUBMISSIONS:
1. The contest is open to anyone anywhere in the world who writes in English. Please note, however, that if you are outside the UK and win a prize, payment will only be via PayPal. If you do not have a PayPal account, you will not receive your prize payment.
2. Poems may be up to and including 55 lines.
3. Fees: one poem is £5; 2 are £8; 3 are £10. These are cumulative, so 4 are £15; 5 are £18; 6 cost £20, and so on. There is no limit on the number you can submit.
4. Dates: submissions may start on February 14, 2015. Online entries have until midnight on June 21, 2015 to submit; postal entries must be RECEIVED NO LATER THAN JUNE 7, 2015.
5. Online entries may be submitted on our website http://backroompoets.weebly.com/ . Look for the competition tag.
6. The envelope for postal entries must be marked “Back Room Poets” and sent to 4 All Saints Court, Didcot, Oxon OX11 7NG, UK. Again, received no later than June 7, 2015.
7. For online entries, in the space for cover letter, please put your name, full contact details including email address, the number of poems submitted, and titles and first lines of your poems. Postal entries: Please include the same on a separate piece of paper, and make your cheque payable to “Back Room Poets.”
8. Poems will be sent to the judge anonymously. DO NOT put your name or any identifying mark anywhere on the files of the poems (for online entries) or anywhere on the poems themselves (postal entries). Failure to abide by this rule will result in disqualification.
9. Poems may not have won a prize in any other competition; be currently submitted to another competition; or be currently under consideration by any publication.
10. Poems must not be previously published. Anywhere online counts as published, including blogs, Facebook, etc.
11. Postal entries must be word-processed. They must be printed on one side of a sheet of standard-sized (A4 or 8.5x11”) only. They will not be returned. ALL entries must be in black 12-point Times New Roman.
12. Any submission breaking any rules will be disqualified. There will be no refunds. Submission means you have accepted these rules.
13. The decision of the judge is final. No correspondence will be entered into.
14. The winners and 5 commended poets will be notified in early September, 2015, and invited to a special reading and award ceremony at the Albion Beatnik Bookshop, Walton St., Oxford, on 26 September, 2015.
15. Questions? email [email protected]
Poems may be up to 55 lines.
First Prize: £400
Second Prize: £150
Third Prize: £50
Five £10 commendations
All winners invited to read with the judge at the Albion Beatnik Bookstore in Oxford, 26 September, 2015.
Submissions close June 7, 2015 (postal submissions); June 21, 2015 (online submissions).
We are honoured to have the noted and successful poet Pat Winslow as sole judge. Pat Winslow worked for twelve years as an actor before leaving the theatre in 1987 to take up writing. She has published seven collections of poetry including Kissing Bones, Unpredictable Geometry and Dreaming of Walls Repeating Themselves, all with Templar Poetry. Pat has recently finished a poetry and music project with Oxford Concert Party, Crisis and the Ashmolean Museum. She is also a celebrant for the British Humanist Association. For further information visit www.patwinslow.com .
Please read the rules and submissions information below before entering the contest:
RULES AND SUBMISSIONS:
1. The contest is open to anyone anywhere in the world who writes in English. Please note, however, that if you are outside the UK and win a prize, payment will only be via PayPal. If you do not have a PayPal account, you will not receive your prize payment.
2. Poems may be up to and including 55 lines.
3. Fees: one poem is £5; 2 are £8; 3 are £10. These are cumulative, so 4 are £15; 5 are £18; 6 cost £20, and so on. There is no limit on the number you can submit.
4. Dates: submissions may start on February 14, 2015. Online entries have until midnight on June 21, 2015 to submit; postal entries must be RECEIVED NO LATER THAN JUNE 7, 2015.
5. Online entries may be submitted on our website http://backroompoets.weebly.com/ . Look for the competition tag.
6. The envelope for postal entries must be marked “Back Room Poets” and sent to 4 All Saints Court, Didcot, Oxon OX11 7NG, UK. Again, received no later than June 7, 2015.
7. For online entries, in the space for cover letter, please put your name, full contact details including email address, the number of poems submitted, and titles and first lines of your poems. Postal entries: Please include the same on a separate piece of paper, and make your cheque payable to “Back Room Poets.”
8. Poems will be sent to the judge anonymously. DO NOT put your name or any identifying mark anywhere on the files of the poems (for online entries) or anywhere on the poems themselves (postal entries). Failure to abide by this rule will result in disqualification.
9. Poems may not have won a prize in any other competition; be currently submitted to another competition; or be currently under consideration by any publication.
10. Poems must not be previously published. Anywhere online counts as published, including blogs, Facebook, etc.
11. Postal entries must be word-processed. They must be printed on one side of a sheet of standard-sized (A4 or 8.5x11”) only. They will not be returned. ALL entries must be in black 12-point Times New Roman.
12. Any submission breaking any rules will be disqualified. There will be no refunds. Submission means you have accepted these rules.
13. The decision of the judge is final. No correspondence will be entered into.
14. The winners and 5 commended poets will be notified in early September, 2015, and invited to a special reading and award ceremony at the Albion Beatnik Bookshop, Walton St., Oxford, on 26 September, 2015.
15. Questions? email [email protected]