The Women

 

At twenty five my grandmother
wore her hair
as memory.

Rosary braids sliced
her back
tendrils strayed
and burned her eyes,
she dreamed of princes but
all she got were her sister's children

gawky squawky babies
desperate for their mother
who was lost
for her own safety
behind quietly medicated walls.

My other grandmother, her beauty
strung like a broken guitar,
tended two children
ten months apart. Her despair
cut shapes in the darkness.

At twenty five my mother was married
to the wind, her dress billowing
out at her calves, tiny roses
struggled over the brown fabric.

I was behind her smile
dark and budding
quiet and slippery as the ring
on her finger.

                                                                            
Heidi North (1st Prize, Adult)
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The Keeper

He lives the high life;
the whipping wind
the smack of stinging salt
Oh, the noise of it,
never a moment
of quiet all winter.

He keeps his
one lone eye
staring out to sea,
with its slow blink.
Sea birds are on
nodding acquaintance.
He knows the names
of all the clouds.

It a vertical world.
His wardrobe's
three stories high,
His table sits square
and uncomfortable
against curving walls
'til he takes a plane to it
one protracted winter.

A summer day
is a gift from heaven.
The basking seals
loll and bark like pets,
turning their whiskers
against his offerings -
plenty more fish in the sea.

He sits on a rock -
hard and jagged against
his ragged arse, and takes
the first wash of the season.
There's a baking calm as though
the world had stopped its turning.
No-one passes for days. The odd bird
reels by - all leisurely and precious
little information. Cliffs hide the village,

but sometimes a girl he used to care for
climbs the high path, gives a wave;
though when they land him back there
and he reels up the high street - dazzled
by the size, the space, the noise of it -
she will not look him in the eye,
but scurries past, her children tugging
on her hem, saying: Look at that man!
Look how long his beard is,
and the redness of his face.

Clare Kirwan (2nd Prize, Adult)
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From the Land of the Living

In the box, amongst
the sky and navy blue
of a Dublin jersey,
the fire-engine red
of a Liverpool scarf
scented with teen spirit,
they placed your mobile
phone before the lid
was screwed down.

Your brother, ten now,
still texts you
the scores
on a Saturday.

Barbara Smith (3rd Prize, Adult)
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I Live in a Darker Fairy Tale

I live in a darker fairy tale
I really doubt you live here
I'm just as comfortable in
The darkest alley
As in
A sunlit meadow
Vampires
Werewolves
Faeries
Phookas
Myth to you
All real to me
If a knight in shining armor
Decided to approach
I'd bat my lashes
And gently say
"Get your hinny off my horse"
I hunt deep in moonlit forests
I hear what you don't hear
The nymphs that giggle
behind the trees
The snake that slithers
through the grass
The butterflies that play
The kelpies waiting,
waiting in the water,
waiting for a very unlucky "guest"
Don't laugh
your fantasy
is my reality
My grand
emerald
ball gown
swirling beneath a sliver sister moon
The thrill of
the hunt
the smell of
a kill
Golden meadows
Sunlit streams
Beating hearts
and flashing knives
Beautiful singing
and a soft summer breeze
Swords; cannons
Parties and tea
Hunters call
Pipers tune
Witches cackle
Baking bread
Silent moon
I live in a darker fairy tale
maybe
some day
you'll join me too

 

Stephanie R. Van Hoek (1st prize, Under 17)
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Sonnet for Imogen, My Sister

What can I say of you, my little imp?
Your smile is that of mischief and pure glee
Your screeches make me cower like a wimp
You give my chewed up pizza back to me.

I held you on the day you were first born
You always come to me to read you books
You ask just me for tussles on the lawn
And we exchange our special sister looks.

But in the mornings when I'm in a rush
You never let me leave the house for school
You cover all my homework books with mush,
Which teachers tend to think is not that cool.

But I wouldn't alter you for all the world,
You're my special lovely little girl.

 

Rosie Bergonzi (2nd Prize, Under 17)
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Totally Late for Bikram Yoga

I was walking down the street today
(Such a pedestrian thing, to walk)
With people about like you wouldn't believe
All around, doing crazy people-y things
Like talking or looking or turning away
Or trying to sell you their elderly cat-
Look, I don't know either, all right?

Now, noise; oh, you couldn't imagine
So much sound in the air that I just couldn't hear
(Myself, of course; what else is there to listen to?)
Cars and yelling and ringtones and feet
The defunct cat mewled something awful
Breathing, oh God: you cannot have heard
Such a desperate bid for survival before;
It makes all of those National G. lion fights
Sound like mime acts or something, whatever.

Keep in mind it was half-past salad o' clock
A nice wind picking up around five
The sun sort of-wavering?
(Havering? Oh no, wait, that's Scottish
I'm, like, totally bad at these things)
Up and down, with the light gone all greige
Like my mother's old paintings, d'you know
When she added too much of that thinner?
Just like that, except smelling of cologne
From men, and perfume as well, from the girls
Plus some petrol and really old dry cat urine
Because come on, I mean, nothing's perfect.

But it was close enough, for that moment
With the sky quite a few shades of lovely
And wind at my back; without looking
I could hear the sound of her wings-
That one, you know? With the ankh
And the black hair and sickle-sharp smile
(She's completely everywhere these days
I mean, soul reaping, man, it's for life.)

Still, I didn't turn back even once,
Just kept walking down the damn street
All pedestrian and holding the cat
(What? It was cute, in a dead sort of way
And even if not, like, who cares-)
See, what's up is for honest I'm thinking
Sometimes you just gotta go-
Grab the horns by the whatsit, the bull,
Walk on and enjoy life, you know?

 

Ella Barzilai (3rd Prize, Under 17)
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The/My Secret

autumn
the swallows leave

migrating in flocks of hundreds.
then returning next spring

winter
the willow trees wrinkle and dry.

in time
greening once more

the peony flowers

shriveling in days
but blossoming swiftly.

yet tell me
why don't my days repeat again

have they been stolen
or
do somewhere they hide

I do not know how many days they gave me
yet my hands slowly wrinkle and empty

calculating.

thousands of days

escaping my grasp
yet they pass
as water droplets plunging into ocean.
no sound.

no imprint.

no remnants.

what must come will come.
morning.

a golden radiance spreads along the walls

the sun
walking across the endless golden sky
hastily

thoughtlessly.
so

washing hands
the day passes through the water

feeding
the day disappears through the bowls of rice

time

gone so quickly
passing in front of my own two eyes

reaching out my hands
trying
holding it back

yet
slipping through by grasp

it

continuing
forever

night.
the sun
disappearing in the darkening crimsons.
rapidly.

eagerly.

laying in the opalescent presence
of my room

awake.
pondering

is somewhere there
once leaving this world

opening my eyes
to the glare of sun
there as always

another day passes.

thinking
to myself

in the thousands of homes
and millions of people
within the world

what do I matter?

Thousands of days passed

rushing on
only to ponder

the passed days as

smoke
blown away by a brisk wind

fog
shown through by a brilliant sun

yet what do I leave behind?

maybe

a thin thread

willingly

I come into this world

yet

a blink of an eye

leaving
this world

going back.

now

tell me

why doesn't my life

ever
replay

again

 

 

William Liu (1st Prize, Under 12)
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I Hate Racism!

 

I hate racism,
I hate it so much,
That if it were alive,
I would kill it.

I wouldn't care if I,
Went to jail for murder,
The only thing that matters to me,
Is that it stops now.

The pain of words,
Is unbelievable,
It hurts so much,
That you are mortified,
When you hear those nasty words.

I HATE RACISM!!!

Adam Letmon (2nd Prize, Under 12)
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Colours of Feelings

Feelings are so near
To us
More than people

They are our world .
More than anything to us
If you think about them

People think they know
Everything .

We can't make are feelings do
What we want them to
Otherwise there would be no
World for us.

 

Alica Butler MacDermott (3rd Prize, Under 12)

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