The Poetry Kit






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

ďI 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.  Gretaís 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. ď


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 donít 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 itíll 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

donít be so stupid but they just sigh scusate, parliamo solo italiano.


The lounge wallís 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, itís a wonderful life.







Results of earlier competitions