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POETRY KIT COMPETITION RESULTS
RESULTS OF THE 2023
INTERNATIONAL POETRY COMPETITION
1st Place
Rewilding the lounge by Greta Ross (Canterbury UK)
2nd Place
Artisan by Sue Hansard (Tamworth, UK)
3rd Place
breast scan by Ansuya Patel (London UK)
Highly Commended
Ornithomancy by Cathy Dalton (Ireland)
One London man by Elizabeth Davies (UK)
Winding Sheet by Camilla Lambert (Arundel UK)
Urban blackbirds and me by Glen Wilson (Portadown NI)
Galaxy by Jenny Mitchell (London UK)
A Kind of Humming Silence by Alicia Sometimes
(Victoria, Australia)
This Morning I Was Not a
Bird by Ion Corcos (NSW Australia)
The pot still stands in the sun by Diane Jackman
(Norwich, UK)
Young Politician's Guide to the Orchestra by
Derek Sellen
(Canterbury UK)
Heavy lifting by A C Clarke (Glasgow, UK)
Abandoned petrol station at Harwich International by
Nico Volkerts (The Netherlands)
Re-education Centre by Dean Gessie (Canada)
The Judge James Bain says
“I read through all of the wonderful entries, over 300
in all and the standard of the poetry was exceptionally high. I reduced
these to a long list and then to the short list you see above before deciding
that the quality and uniqueness of Rewilding the Lounge by Greta Ross was the
poem I would chose as the winner. Greta’s poem stuck in the mind and
developed the scene in a very surreal way but one that took the reader with her.
It raised questions and presented unique and interesting images. “
The winning Poem
Rewilding the lounge by Greta Ross
From where the armchair lives comes a flurry of air,
I notice a new burrow not there yesterday. Good.
Glad the rewilding is getting on. About time new
beasties came.
The scurries are muted, for they know I write for them
and I need silence to think, let things grow.
Most days I scroll the internet, then gaze at the
bookshelves.
The old hardbacks have not shifted for years and I
note
the bookcase has put down roots as if to show my
intention
of reading those still-virgin books is laughable. In
fact
it is creaking from excessive smirking. Maybe I will
open one,
though disturbing a sleeping aged book is cruel.
An old stained TS Eliot stares at me. I have not
responded.
He tempts with the usual tableaux of sacrifice, sex
and other rituals
in meandering verses I blame on the Margate sea air.
Yeats is yellowing. So is Hughes and Heaney. A touch
of the sun.
The gang of newer Bookers peek through spider webs.
They can wait.
Above them, a Divine Comedy sprawls over-fed
with terza rimas.
There is a groan. The Readers Digest Great World Atlas
leans
riffling self-important pages. I have not the heart to
dump it, poor thing,
all those wars, so many renamed countries, it will
have a fit.
So the old Atlas stays. Well what do you expect me to
do?
The rest of the house is surplus to requirements. It
does its own thing.
Yes, you wonder about the toilet and shower. I am not
feral, I do use those.
I don’t go shopping. I grow food where I can in the
lounge. Self sufficiency.
My trusty microwave whirrs and pings. We chat over
coffee.
I have seen its little legs grow, soon it’ll wander
off to find a nicer spot.
The Venetian blinds have turned more earthy, retro
tinted brown,
their vertical slats swishing to try getting through
glass. I shout
don’t be so stupid but they just sigh
scusate, parliamo solo italiano.
The lounge wall’s bare spaces are inventing neo-Dada
art,
amazing the surreal effects they get with fungal
mapping,
careful antique gouges, dribbles of painted masonry
and cameos exposing board and batten. I might put
frames
round the more outspoken patches. Open a gallery.
Sell murals like Banksy. Rewilding, it’s a wonderful
life.