Newbury Schools' Poetry Competition 2009

We ran our poetry competition for the three Newbury secondary schools (St Bart's, Park house and Trinity) earlier this month, for the third year running. The theme of National Poetry Day this year was 'heroes and heroines', and on Thursday October 8, Borders Newbury again hosted our awards evening and donated prizes.

The Newbury Weekly News were kind enough to cover us, and Anne Diamond, on BBC Radio Berkshire, interviewed Ellie, the Sixth Form winner, the next day. Her show also featured a selection of the shortlisted Sixth Form poems. Dr Keston Sutherland judged the Sixth Form poems - featured below are his top three, followed by the two prizewinners from Key Stage 4, and the two from Key Stage 3.

More will follow!

Cardboard Window - Ellie Reynard

We live behind a cardboard window
And though I know we’re there
I cannot see for being dazzled
By the trifles of Rapunzel’s hair
I am deaf to huff huff puffing
Blind to games of red black hearts
Scribbling over in my then favourite colour, blue
As this book it falls apart

Once a maid (sort of)
I look again
The window is furling back
Brown wolf chomping down on your axe
As I skin him with my scarlet cape
Spin his fur into a fine dress
Screwing rubies into his nape
And though we prick our fingers once
Just once
The welling of the blood it holds me

I will not make a bargain over any mans name
And if anyone ever presumes to mount MY ivory tower
It’ll be grimm. Real Grimm.

I am red and white and black
And I’m taping down the cardboard flap
Keeping faith in childhood rhymes
My hiding hero
Laughing at my reasons, taking his damn time

Cenotaph - Larissa Ransom

In London stands
Tall pillar of stone
And
Etched upon this grey
reminder
The words of father
author
patriot
Wreathed in laurel crowns
(Grieving victory):
“The Glorious Dead”.

And we look
And salute
And remember
And we add silent words of our own
To the numerous heroes
Whose corpses lie in places
unknown
The ones who saved the lives
of those they loved
And the lives we live today.

Pure Woman - Ellen Selby

Of all the places in the world, one would not expect this sweet young girl,
In this fortress to be kept – with lips of fire pure plush red,
(A dollar in her lingerie as she laid upon the bed!)
She gave a virgin’s smile, she flashed a heaving breast,
She flicked her golden braid: (the men focused on her chest),
‘Yoohoo kind sire, young traveller! I noticed you were spying!
I’m in a spot of trouble if you wouldn’t mind some Climbing?’
She swung her hair at the ground at the besotted marquess,
As he took the hair’s silken threads and began to onwards press!
Reaching the top – she grabbed him quick, entwined him in her golden hair,
Kissed him hard, harder still, as he was shackled to the chair!
‘O loving Rapunzel!’ he did but cry, as she slapped him from side to side –
‘Am I not the heroic saviour, could you not return the favour?’
Rapunzel as on a shopping spree grabbed his wallet and embroidery!
And as if of super strength, threw the unruly royal wench!
Out of the window, up and beyond, landing in the castle pond.
‘You go home now yer little lecher! If you want some tart that’s pure,
then get some style and shave a little, then improve your looks for sure!’
The prince cried home, Rapunzel snickers, putting the notes safe in her knickers.
She lit a fag, took a smoke, and looked for the next man to make stony broke.

The Hidden Truth - Millie Guille

Screams curdle the essence of your blood.
They stop the rhythmic beatings of the heart;
A skittish pulse forms and throbs
And creeps its way towards the temple.

I saved her from her father’s curse,
His frantic hands clawing fabric folds
And tearing buttons from her shirt
To accompany his morals on the floor.

I was the hero, just ask the girl.
She’ll tell you indirectly though.
Her voice is lost – the truth remains
Buried and clasped between her lips.

Message - Kelly Chapple

I am trapped in an ocean of despair,
Why can’t I find my way?
I feel so transparent,
Yet I still can’t see clearly.
These secrets trapped inside of me
Long to be delivered
But I am lost, floating endlessly nowhere
So I cannot fulfil my duty
I guess I’ll just wait here
For a helping hand or a gentle breeze of encouragement.
Maybe the tides will turn
And my luck will change.
Then my hero, The Sea
Can take me where I need to be.

Poppy Field - John Creed

Red are the poppies that remember the dead,
Cold are the gravestones that hide them.
Deadly are shells, flying overhead,
Death is the word that defines them.

Cream of the crop are sent to war,
Broken are the minds that return.
Death appears at a raven’s caw.
Red are the flames that burn.

Fields of mud, fields of blood,
War’s face looms its ghastly head.
Fields of stone, fields of bone,
Countless are the tolls of the dead.

Heroes will rise and heroes will fall,
The corpses will slowly grow rotten.
They kept on going through it all,
But in time their tombs are forgotten.

If I should die, think only this of me…
That it was not through lack of endeavour.
In time, the tombs will wear away,
But the names are remembered forever.

My Brother Thinks He Is Superman - Sam Miller

My brother thinks he is Superman,
Swinging from tree to tree,
Killing all the Taliban,
And he has only just turned three.

My brother thinks he is Superman,
Dressing up all day,
Playing with his best mate Stan
Who has a super ray.

My brother thinks he is Superman;
He is really just a pest.
The other day he rescued Gran
While she was having a rest.

My brother thinks he is Superman
In his yellow, red and blue:
He has a really clever plan,
But still needs a potty to poo.

Light in Darkness - Ellen MacIver

Sinking in a stream of darkness
Black engulfs me
Tears
Misery
Fighting too hard
Choking
It’ll never be ok

Unexpected

You pull me out
The strong hand of hope
Whilst I was flailing
Effortlessly
You pull me out
Into a light so bright
Warm

Heart beats as you hold my hand
In this new light
Contented in this new light
It will be ok, if only for a while

I’ve got light in my darkness now.

An Ex-Poem (with its Feet Nailed to its Cage) - Chris Brown

Where love is not, poets do…
And those who can’t? I hear they teach
Pupils with nothing else to do
But stare, solemn, on some grey beach.

The unknown touch of reddened lips
Is in all detail somehow rhymed
By those who, in darkness, sit
Scribbling that “The world is kind”.

O unkind world, O unpaid bills!
Where are the ways, where are the wills?
If green is fresh, and love is red,
Then the colour they make is I, so led
To memorise the sonnet’s form
When all I feel is hate and scorn.
Which words are mine, which were I told?
The air bites shrewdly, it is very cold.

Skinned amongst the prickle-stones,
In some desert of the future,
With unpaid bills and refused loans,
I am, torch-lit, the poet unknown.

With the grunt of twine and twist of knife,
I trap my ink in these self-bound tomes,
Please, Fame, don’t come with the end of life;
Beyond stained walls groans the neighbours’ wife.

Visions - Chris Brown

Jump for the moon; find yourself in the
Depths of blue-green water; clouds of
Ecstatic sand brushing the pearl afloat.
Can you touch the ground again? Or will
The white-green eye pull your fingers from
That lamppost and let you fly from the spotlight;
Past the clock and the beating of your heart. Then –
You can join the universe; soul-bound at the edges;
Where the voices of the dead tattoo signals
Into the night; revelations for the stars to
Align against; a magnetism that is found in
Forgotten vessels; interfered with by the
Burning masses; deciding fates by the chewing
Of herbs. White-eyed and blue with time, forcing
Breath from the trees, the mother-god prunes her
Universe-pet, watches another drama. Jump, and
Meet her face-to-thought. She is telling a story
With angels; They sit, the Three, and wind paradoxes
From the air; build the thoughts of men. Jump, and
You will see dead grey hands left clinging to cold metal.
The clock ticks the life from them, and the star-eyed
Angels sit amongst their knowledge. Jump, and in a
Cloud of dust, reach for the pearl in the green-blue depths.

Borrowed Crown - Larissa Ransom

Sitting on the bed
after light has gone out
Queen
of the darkness.
My courtiers surround

Me. Worship me
and idol me.
They hypnotise me into
sleep.

When day breaks, I am mortal once more.
The Sun is King
And I am but the lowly worshipper
Until night returns again.

Ode to a Lone Lamp Post - Larissa Ransom

Light flickers,
dimming,
dies.
In a whimper
it is gone –
surrendering to the dark
which consumes,
devours,
all.

Night's Realm - Larissa Ransom

Two dim bulbs glow
amongst the darkness.
Beneath,
shadows writhe:
trees, arms knotted,
tangled,
reaching toward sky
like beggars on the street.

Yet they are not the lowliest beings
during the reign of Night.

In the heavens
dark grey smudge hides
the moon,
the stars,
And the two dim bulbs do flicker,
blink.

And the mouse,
scurrying in Autumn’s late harvest,
does not see
the threat above.

Owl strikes.

Darkness - Elizabeth Barnes

freezing icy
numbing darkness
chills you through
right to the core
but still
one fleeting thought you think
where is the light
I see no more

Pitch-black darkness
All around you
Nowhere light
No help around
But there
a small and floundering pin point
struggling through
without a sound

growing bigger
very slowly
resisting all
and growing bright
and now
a brand new dawn is breaking
hello to day
goodbye to night

Cupid's DIY - Roseanna Freiburghaus

Letting the compost clot of thoughts manifest,
this is what you earth-tied blinks are.
I’ll inflict upon you the two extremities,
to make you see God’s work. But it’s no
lie to say I’m not one of his winged triumphs.
Because I’ll give you purity and you’ll do as you will,
disappoint, drilling holes in bridges. Time is no one’s enemy
living as a hermit, try to understand, but it
will clasp you in its claws, purring you to the edge of
capability. I’m the apple tree nourishing you
yet buds only taste a few. Each shot I’ll kill
a little piece, but catalyse them too.
Without me there would be no pain, that itself
too horror filled to comprehend - the stillness of the moon.
Its not a question of should, I do exist, accept.
Biology would scream without arrows supporting its three legs.
It’s up to me, and only I, to make this land flood.
I am the salt, I am the water, I am the ultra violet,
I am the words sucked dry in voice, your years of hammering on.
And like the Beatles harmonized, I’m all there is to hear.

Newbury Schools' Poetry Competition 2008

I'm writing after our awards evening for the 2008 Newbury Schools Poetry Competition. If you were one of our guests up at Borders, I hope you enjoyed it. I certainly did - how often do you get the chance to listen to new writing, of that quality, for free...

Enormous thanks to Borders Newbury, first of all. I make no apologies for commercial plugging - on this occasion! John O'Connor's been really supportive with the competition and the awards evening, and hopefully this can be the start of a series of events. Thanks also to my colleagues at Park House and Trinity, Helen Viney and Nat Weight, who gathered together some really high-quality writing. And I really appreciate Keston Sutherland judging and commenting on the Sixth Form entries for us.

I'm also going to plug The Download website - if you're a young writer in West Berkshire, that's your space. Do something with it. A number of the entries for the competition will appear there over the next few weeks.

And there'll be new stuff here, too. As I have time, I'll post material. Subscribe to the page for updates. The top three Sixth Form poems, as selected by Keston, are now here. I started off with Chris Brown's winning Sixth Form entry, which is now joined by Melissa Chandler and Peter Estdale's pieces.

By the way. Check out the music links too.

Application For A Muse - Peter Estdale

Young, budding poet: seeks muse.
Duties include
Dealing with requests
For information by e-mails:
The very thing to break
The pylon-punctured landscape.

It’s not necessary
To be dynamic or flexible,
Nor hair like the dark summer
(Though they are a plus)
Any age is pref’rable,
As are enthusiasm
Willingness
And initiative.

Oh and no thieves:
The last holder left
With a bit of me
Sewn in the lining
of her jacket pocket,
Never to be returned.

Untitled - Melissa Chandler

Among this early field of emerald eyes,
Where a silent sigh embraces all,
And double glazed trees do tickle the skies,
Awakens unweeded a well-known brawl.

Where all at once the leaves aren’t fresh,
And the darkness comes, yet shadows still lie,
The green is black and it poisons flesh,
Inside the remains of the passer-by.

The black blood seeps through the hollow snakes,
Entangling ghosts of grey around air,
The concrete trees capture prey as they wake,
And drains their mind, as they work in despair.

But soon after the quiet essence of morning
Is evaporated from the overgrown field,
She returns to her slumber in the mist of work’s warning,
Because now all is busy, rush hour has spilled.

Words to a Winding Key (Once) - Chris Brown

Wind, you, this oak grandfather clock;
That clicked and knocked in Nature’s wind;
That grew and leafed and once housed things
More and less than clockwork. I grew
Once in the sweet season scents,
Ignorant of axe-men and axe-wounds,
Who, sent on their rounds sent
Me to be wound. Slung to the
Round, conforming blade
That confined me to box. And yet
This age would be young were I but
Livelier wood. Hands
I may have, but my rings are now lost,
And my boughs and roots, once strong to climb,
And my new-leaf shoots, gone now for chimes
(Do they comfort your nights, my new-life screams?)
That are of a gold less precious than green.

My youth was the joy of each wind’s breath on my branches –
Before your deep breaths in the chore of your winding.
Now we have purpose, but once I had meaning –
In whispering and twisting and creaking and leaning.