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2009 SEGORA POETRY COMPETITION
Click to see: First Prize; Second Prize; Third Prize; Judge's Comments
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Finding Stones
Roger Elkins
Yours. Chanced across plastic bags of them pushed to the back corners of drawers.
Recall your collecting – Won’t be missed – from each beach we visited: pebbles, shingle, rocks. And not as specimens, or to announce proudly with photographs – Been there – but for their looks, so kept separate for sketching, their textures defined by that distilling vision of yours:
designer ones shimmering Klimt-like in angular patches of ochre, bronze and gold; sea-bleached denim greys; those plover’s speckled eggs; and those ringed like Saturn’s suns, or with galaxies mapped against black; the blood-rich, and those honed to bone-shapes; some marmoreal and cold as moons; others maquettes for Gormley sculptures.
Resurrected now to after-lives and separated from sunlight, they’re lack-lustre: egg dead. Don’t have that vitality which you picked them for, but are reduced to a dulled numbness their hues subdued like grief.
Sitting ambushed in the stillness of our living-room among mica and gritstone, alabaster, granite and karst, which should I choose to herald your name?
I’ve collected its legend already:
Suppose growing old is the best we can hope for – another vision you distilled |
Roger
Elkin has won 32 first prizes in (inter)national poetry competitions. He won the
Lake Aske Memorial Award (1982 & 1987), the Douglas Gibson Memorial Award
(1986), the Sylvia Plath Award for Poems about Women (1986) and the Hugh
MacDiarmid Trophy (2003). He was shortlisted for the Bloodaxe New Blood
Book-length Competition (1987), was one of ten shortlisted from 4,000 entries
for the Strokestown International Poetry Competition (2003), and one of six
shortlisted for the Keele University Poetry Prize (2007). He became the first
recipient of the Howard Sergeant Memorial Award for Services to Poetry in 1987
and was The Writer’s Rostrum “Poet of the Year, 1991.” He won the inaugural
Segora competition in 2007.
In 2010 he is tutoring residential weekend courses on the poetry of Ted Hughes
and W. B. Yeats at Wedgwood College, Barlaston. For full details see
www.sgfl.org.uk
He was literary advisor to the Leek Arts Festival, for whom he organized an
International Poetry Competition from1982 to1992; the co-Editor of Prospice, the
international literary quarterly, from issues 17-25 inclusive; and sole Editor
of Envoi 1991-2006, (issues 101-145).
He has seven collections currently in print, including Blood Brothers, New &
Selected Poems (Headland, 2005) and Dog’s Eye View (Lapwing, 2009). He lives in
Biddulph Moor, Staffordshire, England.
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After Matthew’s Gap
Christopher North
It was in a Merc somewhere amongst the villages outside Bangkok; the driver wanted to overtake this van but the road was too winding. ‘He’s carrying durian,’ he said. ‘What’s that?’ I asked,
then it came through the a/c, the worst stench you’ve ever breathed. They’re banned in hotels it’s so bad but they taste of sweet custard. They auction them as aphrodisiacs. They look like grenades.
There was a scorpion the size of a tea-plate beside the path north of Chang Mai. They have the same word there for hello, goodbye and thank you. Matthew paused.
Grandfather said that in the desert he’d lost his asthma, It was the air of course. This reminded Matthew’s mother of the army transports buried in the sandstorm
she’d seen in ‘The English Patient’ the night before. Then she mentioned that Gillian and Donald were going to Guatemala. (I had to look it up. The Yucatan peninsular she said helpfully.)
Matthew chased a piece of meat around his plate and continued: The only lake in Sumatra is in the cone of an extinct volcano; an island in it is the same size as Singapore.
The Sultan of Brunei can fit the entire population of the country in his palace reception hall. There are people in the jungle there who worship animals but we didn’t see them.
A friend of mine in Ruislip craved durians when she was pregnant, said his mother, her husband found two in Paris and had to vacuum wrap them. I never slept anywhere as well as I slept in the desert, said Grandfather.
The fut-futs outside the hostel tell you the Reclining Buddha’s closed even when it isn’t because they’re paid to take you to ‘Gem-store! Gem-store!’ Those places never close. Grandfather said it was like that in Jerusalem.
KL was OK but we didn’t go up the two towers, only the radio mast. In the square they say they have the highest flagpole in Asia. I told them I’d spoken to Gillian and Donald before they left:
she’d said they liked traveling near war zones and staying in B & B’s because all the Hiltons and Marriotts look the same. I like variety and Donald enjoys a bit of edge. Cambodia last year was hairy though.
Here it’s been the wettest autumn in 60 years, said Grandfather and that got us onto monsoons, El Nino and mega-tsunamis. Matthew fell asleep. Poor thing said his mother, him and his jet lag. |
Christopher North facilitates poetry writing retreats in his art centre, Almassera Vella, in Relleu Alicante (www.oldolivepress.com). He has chaired readings by visiting poets from the USA and UK on behalf of Stanza Alacant and La Seu Benissa for the last two years – thus introducing exciting contemporary voices to local audiences. A prize-winning poet himself, his first collection ‘A Mesh of Wires’ was short-listed for the Forward Prize in 1999. He won the Silver Wyvern at ‘The Poetry on the Lake’ Festival at Lake Orta, Italy in 2007 and the Plough, the East Riding and the Segora prizes in 2008/2009. He is currently engaged in writing a monograph on the Poet’s Notebook and, with fellow poet Terry Gifford, preparing the launch of a bi-lingual edition of recent poems 'The Other Side of Aguiolar.’ His first full collection ‘Explaining the Circumstances' is to be published by Oversteps Books in Spring 2010.
'After Matthew's Gap' evolved from a family gathering upon my nephew's return from gap year travels. I enjoy working with conversations as material for poems - recording what is said on the surface, suggesting what is not said and what is going on beneath the words
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Red Sweater (Moscow 2008)
Charles Evans
Clocks ticked, tapes ran as small, slight, shoulders hunched, she leaned across the board. Her opponent sat still, black hat masking the heavy face, the enemy. Then she stood. I saw dark eyes, tired, heard her speak, the hushed voice calling an official. Urgent talk, and then the walk across the floor to the yellow rope where I stood, hearing her speak, the fast talk, the question pleading, the foreign tongue.
She was cold, wanted a garment, Coat in room, not permitted find. Plees, you hev warm, give plees and quickly I pulled over my head, gave her the red English sweater, V-neck. Long sleeves dangled as she sat, facing odds, battle sweat, seeing the board, the foe, shielding her eyes. We stood watching, whispered the moves, saw on the big screen high above heads her frightened eyes, the frown, fear in the white face.
Then it was over. A handshake, quick steps from the board, pieces scattered as she stood before me, holding the sweater, loss in her eyes, murmuring thanks. No, I said, keep it, and as she paused I gathered up the garment and quickly in one fast movement slipped it over her. That second the tired lined face, the loser, disappeared, the garment dropped down, brown curls fell free, a blush, a small girl in a red sweater |
Charles Evans writes: “Some poems demand work and sweat – others drop ready-made into your lap. Before retirement, I travelled widely in Russia. A friend took me to a Moscow Chess Olympiad where I was fascinated by the atmosphere of noiseless battle and hostility. One young player battled in vain against a celebrated opponent. Then the incident I describe took place. It was a moment I shall never forget.”
Charles Evans took 2nd place in the National Poetry Competition this year. His poems have appeared in a variety of journals and he was highly commended in the Bridport prize, 2003, and by Frogmore in 2006. He has been published by Leaf Books. In 2005 he was awarded a Hawthornden Fellowship to complete travel narratives in Russia. He lives in Blackheath, London
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Offerings Bernard Lord
Wherever the wind scuffles the prosaic tarn of Rydalwater and scales the soulless heights of Red Screes, it scurries past his one-time resting place on the edge with its prominent view of Kirkstone bar. Vintage clichés break off, scramble down and trigger wide-ranging, esoteric conversations in the tap room.
As the nitty-gritty leaks out of the dialogue, heart’s core slinks away to the Golden Rule, embroiders tales of benighted treks, blisters, raw retreats. At closing time, essence melts into groggy smoke and congenial Harley’s; a soul thirsty still for unrealized aspirations. Locals say he haunts more distant shores.
High noon in The Pass. The heavens erupt. Climbers curse and spit, congregate below the Cromlech boulders. Again, Shibboleth crops up. This time the crack turns on Bob’s “off-the-wall” line of cerebration: if fronted by a hold-less slab, best make a leisurely sign of the cross –
difficult at The Mostest for the gathering to grasp. The host heckle, Hee-Haw, hold not a whit of credence in prayer nor extreme unction. The leaders pay homage to no one’s god, not even as the sun springs up, disperses rainstorm and dries out Cemetery Gates at breakneck speed |
Bernard Lord is an ex rock-climber, fell-walker and runner “all interrupted by Medicine and the Civil Service.” On retirement he joined the Writers’ Block in the UK after having felt let down by Creative Writing courses in general. Since moving to France he has been published in Pulsar, Decanto, Fire Magazine’s International Issue and The French Literary Review. He is the author of two collections, In a Cerulean Sky and Ratios of Approximation. This year he came joint second in the Global Short Story Competition and was short-listed for the Fish short story prize. He edited the recently-published correspondence Letters from Brazil. He lives in Gourgé, France
Judge's comments by Gordon Simms
Once again it has been a pleasure and a privilege to judge the competition. If there was this year any discernible tendency across the entries, received from eight countries, it was towards a more narrative content. There was also an increase in the number of poems about love and its loss.
Eventually four poems emerged as possible prize-winners, and between them they represent the diversity of style, voice and subject-matter that makes judging the competition such an enriching experience.
Having said that I have surprised myself by selecting Roger Elkin’s poem Finding Stones to be the winner. A decade ago it was almost impossible to read through a competition anthology (more of which later) without finding a poem on this subject. The romance of the shoreline, the space for reflection, the associations of a particular period of time or companionship and the shapes, colours and origins of the stones themselves combine in such an evocative way that shingle beaches seemed in danger of disappearing. Collecting stones from beaches became illegal, and poets were obliged to seek other inspiration.
This poem, however, is an affectionate blending of most of the above elements, suggesting fondness for a shared activity and poignancy for a shared existence (reinforced by the brief and simple extracts of direct speech). It does this without sentimentality. It is direct yet thoughtful, while its reference to sketching justifies the richly-detailed examination of the samples, allowing the sumptuous language of the second stanza. This contrasts with the following stanza where the life has gone out of them, and we are thus prepared for the beautifully-expressed conclusion.
The inversion that transforms the once so cherished stones into materials for an assault facilitates another layer of insight into the narrator’s experience. Indeed, the modes of language – conversational, reflective, recollective, reportorial – are skillfully blended to create a poem which is moving, intimate and honouring.
Conversation features strongly in Christopher North’s After Matthew’s Gap, though it’s conversation of the kind where it seems those sharing in it are only half-listening. This is a very funny poem where the author demonstrates his acute ear. However, if you allow it to get to you, the poem is also sad, exposing our trivialization of potentially enriching experiences and our inclination to recall only ephemera (is Matthew’s gap really between his ears?) It is those two levels of response, together with the engagingly surreal anecdotal detail, that makes this poem such a delight to read.
Both 1st and 2nd placed poems, different from each other though they be, demonstrate excellent aspects of poetic craft. The first doesn’t waste a word yet expresses a modulation of moods with which the reader may identify, while celebrating descriptive language. This is supported by a musicality in which rhyme – end, internal, full and half – plays a significant part. The second is also well-structured and controlled whilst cleverly sustaining an amusing tone amongst all its voices and managing to take the reader on a bizarre journey.
I have divided the third prize, modest as it is, between two poets: Charles Evans and Bernard Lord. Charles Evans’ Red Sweater leaves us with a haunting image of transformation as the competition chess player reverts to a mere child. The poem reaches across barriers – geographical, cultural, linguistic – and, for those of us with memories of the Cold War, political. The tension of the match is conveyed well by the simple language (which is in one or two instances slightly protracted, perhaps for the sake of the form). This unusual subject-matter provides an opportunity for the reader to reflect on the ease with which a small, humane act may speak volumes.
Offerings by Bernard Lord takes us on a tour of climbing routes in North Wales and the English Lake District. The author ingeniously amalgamates the names of climbs into this tribute poem, but the reader need not be a practiced mountaineer to enjoy his vocabular adventure. In addition one has a sense of the camaraderie that climbing folk enjoy when sharing their experiences of the challenge, frustration and exhilaration of their sport. The tight structure of the poem befits the precision that a climber must have, whatever lore or flights of fancy may run through his mind.
I would like to commend Gusti Weiss by Angela Arratoon (Ealing, London); When Nightmares Collide by Jackie Fellague (Hamburg, Germany); The Man, whose Car was Stolen with his Grandmother’s Corpse on the Roof-rack, has a Dream by Christopher North and Duty by Laura Solomon (Nelson, New Zealand).
Again I would like to thank all entrants for making the competition possible. The diversity of poetry is fascinating, and it is reassuring to witness once again how many people find creating it to be so important to them. Interests, occupations and locations may be widespread, but we all have this passion in common.
Congratulations to the prize-winners, whose work, along with the winning poems from the 2007 and 2008 competitions, will be published at some point in 2010. The anthology will also include winning entries from our first two short story competitions and selected entries from our new Vignette competition (deadline March 2010).
Finally my thanks to Jocelyne for again providing excellent administrative
back-up.
Gordon Simms