SEGORA POETRY COMPETITION
Click to see: First Prize; Second Prize; Third Prize; Judge's Comments
Ligularia dentata
For Janet, for Ged
If it were a play, this rant of a garden plant
would be a full three-acter: from its opening
dialogue of crimsoning tips all machine-oil sheen
pushing up in Spring; through to its hoisting
leaf-risings from carmine stems till unfurling
its umbrels – huge hearts, larger than dinner-plates,
dust-green and veined in maroon with nibbled edge,
and beneaths the fleshy purples of liverbloods –
each one a dramatic breath-catching monologue;
and on to its late Summer denouement, in brush-tufts
of brassy-orange flowers crowning its massiness.
With his painter’s eye, Ged would have smiled wryly
at my image–spinning, but why did he insist on digging
the thing up? Didn’t he like it, after all? Or perhaps
he knew you never wanted it? Too in-your-face for you?
Too him-ish to cope alone with after he’d gone?
Or had he gathered from my rabbiting on about how
its shields of leaves, its assagai flower-spires, its plumes
had that Zulu beauty we’d both seen in the film –
nobly exotic, erotically-charged with a defiant dignity
pulling at guts, at groin – that I coveted it, so welcomed
the fact he’d found someone who’d give it living-room?
Whatever – there he was, mauling the lawn-length,
lugging that black bin-liner behind him, with its bulging
crush and heave of purpling under-leaf, its snaking trails
of rootstock – raw, splintered, torn – where he’d rocked it
loose. He stood defiantly triumphant: his stone Chinos
earth-dirty, long fingers grimed, square nails stained,
and forehead beading in sweat, his sky-blue eyes smiling.
That was three weeks before the morphine kicked in.
Then his slowing hold on life began to slide – in, out, out –
till abseiling to painlessness he’d rocked himself loose,
and left you – rootless – to flesh out the rest of your act.
Eileen and I are fortunate: we have the ligularia.
Our togetherness. And you. Ged’s singular you.
Roger Elkin
Roger Elkin has won over 70 poetry prizes, including 24 firsts. He has had six collections published since 1998, whilst Fixing Things (bluechrome) will appear in 2008. He is a reviewer, judge, lecturer and editor ( Envoi 1991-2006). His poems have been published worldwide.
'I began to write this in 1998, although it underwent a gestation period of nine years before I felt it did justice to the subject and to my own complex emotional responses. The language had to be big and expressive to reflect a man who was full of generosity, a questing and questioning person. The magnificent plant symbolises his passion and purpose. Ultimately this metaphor gave me the poem'.
Baiji, sneeze
In the now you treasure what was left behind by the river’s
hectic ferrying, the slurp and yellowing sol
you saw pictures in, grateful for the splash of barges
or the churn of propellers, for their small acts of creation.
The blades were the fingernails of a god tapping the tension.
The pictures were wild spirits disturbed from the sediment,
and the ships were just ships, hills, landscape
for the gods to live in.
Sometimes you’d recite the river’s
thousand names: poetic, natural, descriptive,
a model of justice, giving them all the same length of time
on your tongue before you breathed them alive, holding the sound
in your ear like some jaded empress,
stuffing herself green.
You’d make the traffic a white noise you’d only miss
when it dulled
and then sneeze, quietly, as if the whole world
could hear something as insignificant as a goddess.
Owen Lowery
Originally from Reading, living in Billinge, Lancashire, he is concluding an MA in Creative Writing at Bolton. The BBC has recorded one of his stories; his poetry has been successful in the Biscuit Prize, Virginia Warbey, Cannon Poets and Leaf Books.
‘My poem fluctuates between the world of the baiji, (also river goddess) and a world in which the dolphin has a spiritual presence. The ‘’you’’ is ambiguous: witness, baiji and goddess. The extinction of the baiji and the ephemeral voices in the poem are mirrored in the irregularity of the lines.'
Black and white
Took the very last picture on the roll
of the last black and white film
that Monet could buy
in Albert
and it was a dead rabbit
tucked off the final neat verge
getting Thiepval’s looming brick
full in shot
shot too
and when I got back to the tent
fried the duck breast
fiddled with the aperture and got the film out
it fell apart in my duck breast hands
without a wrench or whimper
sick of the labour now that digital’s cleaned up
and I thought of the first picture
that trip
another dead rabbit in a cemetery
this time lain
on the lawn
the trusty Olympus has finally tripped
topped herself so she’ll never have to face me
with all the photos she’s buggered
thinking why no colour?
He’ll go mad
when he finds out
but all will be fine
I wanted the shapes
the colours don’t work
in dreams
Simon Turner
Born in St.Albans, Hertfordshire in 1957; attended St. Albans School and University College of Wales, Aberystwyth. Teaches French and is a Deputy Headmaster in Blackburn, Lancashire. Writes for sanity and good health. Has three daughters.
Judge's comments by Gordon Simms
It has been a privilege to read the work of poets from eight countries. Presented with a range of form, subject, style and voice, a judge is not comparing like with like.
I read all the poems aloud, then left time to elapse before returning to them. Towards the end of that period certain impressions had taken hold. The poems that had created those impressions tended towards a short-list, and two of them appear amongst the prize-winners. This is by no means a foolproof method, however. I found that some poems gradually demanded more of my attention as my appreciation of them grew in subsequent voiced readings, and one of these eventually took its place among the top three.
I think it essential to speak and hear poetry. Given voice, a poem’s attributes may be enhanced – patterns of sound, rhythmic sequence, forms of rhyme, even the sense of the phrasing. Conversely, weaknesses may be emphasised, such as indeterminate syntax, unnecessary repetition, clichés and tired phrasing. Sentimentality and weak conclusions also become only too apparent.
The three winning poems took their place ahead of some well-written poetry which was variously amusing, intimate, urgent and provocative. In particular I would like to commend the poetry of Maeve Bhavan, Elizabeth Goodwin, Colin Ross Jack, Simon Jackson, and Barbara Nichol.
There were also several otherwise impressive entries that were ruled out because of glaring weaknesses – including spelling errors or inconsistent punctuation, the latter causing unintended ambiguity or downright confusion. That doesn’t mean that a good poem must be entirely comprehensible. Poetry is often more than the sum of the words. I find this especially in the cases of the winning entries.
First prize:
Ligularia dentata by Roger Elkin is an ambitious poem succeeding by dint of its authenticity.
This is a brave poem, engaging lush description (with challenging vocabulary) followed by colloquial expression and capped by an understated ending which demands that the poem is read again. The poet has risked all in changing both style and the focus at the end, but leaves the reader with an overwhelming sense of affection, appreciation of difference and affirmation, all in spite of loss.
Second prize:
Owen Lowery’s Baiji, sneeze is a poem that grew on each reading. Mythic, elegiac and beautifully attuned to its subject, the poem both celebrates the Yangtze dolphin and deplores its depletion.
Even its layout conjures the irregular ripples of the river. This poem works, as do rivers, on many levels – sensual on the surface, moving, and profound upon reflection.
Third prize:
Black and white by Simon Turner appealed to me from the very beginning, but it took me some considerable time to appreciate the resonances afforded by its apparent simplicity. The casualness of death surrounds us as we live our lives (even the roadside signs announcing the the Somme are like tombstones, in sombre white on black). A dead rabbit or two feature amongst the massed graves; an outmoded camera gives up its last whilst recording the memorials. Idiosyncratic as it is, this poem insists that we put ourselves in the frame.
These were three very different poems which shared certain attributes. The poets cared, avoided sentimentality, had distinctive vision and voice and to a greater degree deployed understatement, leaving the reader space for an emotive response.
Finally, one often hears that poetry declines in relevance and thus in popularity. My experience in judging the first Segora Open Poetry Competition is that we still turn to poetry to release the inner voice, be it to speak of distress, love, affirmation or celebration – or simply to observe from an unfamiliar angle.
My thanks to Jocelyne for her administration which, amongst other aspects, ensured that I knew nothing of the authorship of the poems until judging was completed, and to all those who entered to make the judging such an absorbing experience.