Competitions
The 2012 competition will be announced shortly.
And we are pleased to announce the results of the fourth of our poetry competitions, judged this year by the poet David Swann. David Swann's most recent book, 'The Privilege of Rain' (Waterloo Press, 2010) was shortlisted in March this year for the Ted Hughes Award for New Work in Poetry.
Prizes of £200, £100 and £50 were presented at the festival's opening ceremony at The Spring Arts & Heritage Centre in Havant on the evening of Thursday 22 September.
First Prize: The Horse by Christian Ward
Truckers saw it first, vast
on the scrub outside Kilgore, Texas,
a giant horse, hooves
kicking the freeway into the distance.
It faced east, towards the oil derricks,
mouth parted as if it would
swallow the sun that rose
from behind the long booms.
It had appeared overnight.
A black shadow on the land,
leaping over the gates
of the derelict factories.
Word spread. Crowds gathered.
Kids, someone said,
but when they examined its flanks
they found oil,
oil where none had been drilled
in years, where houses
still collapsed into empty shafts
and hills bore scars.
A gift from the underworld,
hauling the past
from the dead earth. Old men
knelt to breathe the smoke
of its mane, whisper
in its ear, walk away
in silence, fists clenched,
faces streaked with tears.
Second Prize: Turning by Jean Watkins
She had thumped a lump of clay on her turning wheel,
centred it, dug in her thumbs to make a well.
Drawing the sides up and out between her hands
she had thinned and shaped its curve into a bowl.
The glaze was a swirling sea of mazarine blue
in fluid light from the staircase window.
When it fell it seemed suspended in the air
for seconds, minutes, before the shattering.
For seconds, minutes before the shattering
when it fell it seemed suspended in the air.
In fluid light from the staircase window
the glaze was a swirling sea of mazarine blue.
She had thinned and shaped its curve into a bowl
drawing the sides up and out between her hands,
centred it, dug in her thumbs to make a well.
She had thumped a lump of clay on her turning wheel.
Third Prize: The Badminton Match by AK S Shaw
"Political spin undermines democracy."
Sushi Das 12th March 2010
Belong to a famous club? Yes, indeed we do:
old cocks nudging sixty, way beyond
the limit, slightly bent, but still as fit
as gran's false teeth, and spoiling for a scrap.
We're challenged by a somewhat younger set:
a pair of lively well-heeled featherweights
in cool blue polyester tops, as clean
as toothpicks, smooth as quills.
These boys are good, a little green perhaps,
but full of class, as keen and sharp as glass,
a few quick flicks, a fist of forehands
at our feet, a rash of smashes down the line.
To match such skill and speed (as honest as -
"My shot was long.") we need disguise; to bend
our frames, to pull some strings, portray each shot
as what it's not: we need to spin to win.
It's not events, dear boy, that steal the show,
that bag the most high profile game, it's guile:
that sly back-hander in the face, the subtle serve
that starts off low, but ends up higher than a kite,
the shot that bends the rule-book, looks too wide,
(as if it's skipping bail) but never leaves the court,
the slice that seems as if it's falling short,
but surfs the net, then drops the other side.
With spells of magic play, we string
our challengers along: it's one game all:
twenty-one - twenty: service ours.
Surely after so long in control we haven't lost
our grip? The shuttle rises, floating - hanging like
a mocking bird; now it starts to spin.
We close our eyes, hold our breath. Will it land
outside the court, or will it just drop in?
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