Winter, spring, summer or fall All you have to do is call And I’ll be there You’ve got a friend from Carole King’s Grammy winning and Album of the Year (1972) Tapestry.
FRIENDS! Our judge for the 2024 Waltham Forest Poetry Competition, Jacqueline Saphra, has picked FRIENDSHIP as the theme. The competition will be ready to receive poems in late May/early June and will close in September, so there’s plenty of time to think up new poems or find old ones that suit the theme. There’ll be more info here and on X at #WFPoetryComp when we launch.
The Trades Hall, Walthamstow, was host to this year’s Waltham Forest Poetry Competition awards on Tuesday 5 December – what a night! GO HERE to read the poems.
It’s Christmas!
A few mins to go…
The stage is set…
Paul McGrane opens the evening
Our guest poet Steve White
Frankie Goldhill, Commended, with judge Niall O’Sullivan
L A Granski, Commended
Ailsa Betts read on her behalf of her daughter Iris, Commended
Marcia Jackson, Commended
Michaela Eshun, Commended
Brodie Goldhill, 3rd place
Hilda Finch, 2nd place
Taqwa Malik, left, winner of Local prize
Acacia da Costa Vieira, Commended in main prize
Barry Coidan introduces the Funniest Poem prize
Mo Gallacio reads Susan Bowman’s Funniest Poem winner The Nappies
Angelena Demaria, Commended
Martin Frimet, Commended
Lois Roberts, Commended
Eithne Cullen, Commended
Helen Maurer, 3rd place in Local prize
JP Seabright, 2nd place in Local prize
Stevie Green, winner of Local prize
Max Terry Fishel, Commended
David Van-Cauter, Commended
Tim Kiely, 3rd place
Michael Shann, 2nd place
Winner Adam Elms
Our judge, Niall O’Sullivan, reads
Organisers Paul McGrane and Barry Coidan with judge Niall O’Sullivan
Our judge Niall O’Sullivan has chosen his 2023 winners from 688 poems sent in on the theme of PLAY (from 332 poets). Thank you to our sponsors Barry Coidan and Stow Brothers (who sponsored the Local Prize). ENJOY THE POEMS!
does not bite the trembling hand that feeds it but hoovers up its nightly supper with a snapping jaw. Again.
Greedy for memory, for that aftertaste of yesterday and yesterday and yesterday and yesterday and PRESS PLAY – watch nineteen ninety-two tickle its palate.
A blinking, a blur, a whir stirs her into view; the picture quakes; technicolour tries to shriek but is clouded by a grainy shroud; childish yelps crack wide the film as she whirls towards Grandad, hands waving, sundress mid-leap, chasing sobs from the garden hose, catching the beanbag and dropping the beanbag and throwing the beanbag and PAUSE – REWIND – STOP – PRESS PLAY – catching the beanbag and dropping the beanbag and throwing the beanbag and PAUSE – REWIND – STOP – TOO FAR – FAST FORWARD – STOP – PRESS PLAY – catching the beanbag and dropping the beanbag and throwing the beanbag and Grandad does a silly voice and we giggle at her purple ice-lolly tongue and she throws the beanbag at the cat and waves, the dopey panda still grinning from her velcroed shoes and PAUSE – REWIND – STOP – TOO FAR – FAST FORWARD – STOP – TOO FAR – STOP – REWIND – PRESS PLAY.
The Last VHS Player In England belches up its nightly supper with a weary jaw. Again. Thirty-one years ingesting the very same yesterday and yesterday and yesterday and yesterday and grief is a tang, embedded, in its taste buds, shuddering through its mechanical guts where she now lives, for three minutes and forty six seconds, every – single – evening – she is alive, she’s still alive PRESS PLAY PRESS PLAY – she lives, she still lives, PAUSE REWIND STOP STOP STOP PLAY PRESS PLAY –
Look, look there! Look.
She’s waving.
Again.
Adam Elms is a visually impaired arts creative, writer, and Devonian (though not necessarily in that order). He is currently navigating his mid-thirties in Bristol with wild abandon and the help of gin – and by returning to writing and performing poetry after a ten year gap. His many loves include hiking, wild swimming, choral singing, painting, cake, Nina Simone, sarcasm, and really good knitwear.
Adam: “It’s rather hard to articulate where my inspiration for this poem or, indeed, where any of my half-decent ideas come from. I really wish I knew, in order that I could have them all the time. I’m very much a writer who thrives on instinct and, on that crisp, sun-kissed autumn afternoon down on Bristol harbourside and, subsequently, in a cosy nook of The Merchant’s Arms tavern, I was in wistful mode. Since losing both of my grandmothers in the last five years, I’ve found my pen twisting its path through themes of family, memory, nostalgia, loss, and grief much more often, not least because each death has led us to comb through our old photo albums and videotapes – and to remember. There’s something wonderfully warm, old-fashioned, and melancholy about VHS footage. It’s like a time capsule; even those who are long departed seem suddenly to burst from the screen and live again. In my opinion, it loses something when that footage is converted to DVD or a computer – it’s sanitised, somehow. The colours burn that little less brightly. Maybe that was in my sub-conscious as I started to frantically scrawl thoughts in a battered notebook? Maybe it was a poem that I’d always meant to write and the prompt of ‘PLAY’ catapulted it to the front of my mind? Whatever happened, I told myself that once – a pint of amber ale and a homemade cheese and onion roll: the supper of kings – was gone, the piece must be complete. And then… it wrote itself. In just under an hour. No cutting. No editing. No polishing. Note to self: I must write in the pub more often.”
Niall O’Sullivan: “We have been deceived by the frictionlessness of today’s technology into believing that ideas and memories are insubstantial, cloud-dwelling waifs. What I love about the central conceit of this poem is how it looks to the punchy physicality of a VHS player to illustrate the labour of revisiting memories and the physicality of grief. At the same time, the poem becomes an object of play within itself, echoing the function of its subject through repetition and its refusal to move on from this redundant machine in the same way that its operator cannot move on from a thirty-one year old memory.”
Michael Shann Euphoria
We all knew Middy’s dad was a butcher. And his grandad. When we did that topic on the Victorians he surprised us still, pulling a pig’s bladder out of his bag, slapping the bloody mess on our desk. Mr Campy said it was very interesting but it stunk. So we took it to the toilets, washed it well and knotted all but one of the openings. Then we took it in turns to put our lips to the remaining hole. And blow. The taste is with me now. The word is offal. When fully inflated we summoned the whole class, kicked some history around the playing field. Even Mr Campy had a go, hoofing it as high as he could in his old brown suit. We’d never seen him laugh like that before, and soon the other classes, distracted by all that shrieking, came out to watch. Me and Middy had never known success, but soon the whole school was out there, chasing the bouncing bladder over the grass. Somehow we’d created euphoria, a day that soared above the rest of the term. Then suddenly, like a flat fart, it popped. Our beautiful ball became a slimy puddle. Some kids said it was disgusting, but as everyone else traipsed back in, me and Middy strode like cup winners.
Originally from Yorkshire, Michael Shann lives in Walthamstow, east London, and is a member of the Forest Poets stanza. He has had three pamphlets published by the Paekakariki Press: Euphrasy (2012), Walthamstow (2015) and To London (2017). Michael’s poems have been longlisted for the National Poetry Competition, shortlisted in the Best Poem of UK Landscape section of the 2023 Gingko Prize, and highly commended in the Gerard Rochford Poetry Prize, the Poetry on the Lake competition, and two of the Poetry Society’s Stanza competitions. As well as appearing in many poetry magazines, Michael’s poems have been featured in the World Snooker Championship Programme and the Arsenal fanzine The Gooner. Michael works for the charity Carers UK and is currently working on his first full collection of poems about Epping Forest. www.michaelshann.com. Twitter @michaelshann1 & Facebook @michaelshann
Michael: ‘Euphoria’ was originally written as one of a series of much shorter poems about my experiences of growing up in a small town in West Yorkshire in the 1970s and 80s. I wrote most of these poems in 2017 but felt they weren’t quite right so didn’t do much with them. Then, in the summer of 2023, influenced by a couple of other poets I was reading, particularly Raymond Carver, I returned to my Otley poems. I recognised several of them as the beginnings of longer poems, so I built on the original eight lines and enjoyed seeing where they would take me. ‘Euphoria’ was originally named ‘Footy’ and is based on unreliable memories of something that happened when I was at middle school. When my friend Middy brought a pig’s bladder into school I remember us washing it in the toilets and then blowing it up to show the class how the first footballs were made. In writing the poem I tried to capture how one young boy’s action could transform an ordinary day into a memorable day for everyone who was there. I lost touch with Middy when he left school to join the family business. Geo. Middlemiss and Sons butchers are still going strong on Market Street in Otley over 100 years after they were established.”
Niall: “On my first reading of this poem, I genuinely had no idea how each little moment would play out, from the matter of fact arrival of the pig’s bladder into a classroom, to the icky details of its inflation in a school toilet, to its transformation into an object of delight and its final bathetic deflation into a slimy puddle. Not only does it echo the visceral origin of a national sport and multi-billion dollar industry but it also beautifully illustrates the idea of play as a sudden, improvisational frenzy.”
Tim Kiely Rainbow Heart Power-Up for a 90’s Platform Game That Did Not Exist
You know that bit – when the low-res tunnels of blue-brown walls were funnelling you, a fish (what kind of fish was it?) through the low-res blue of your freshwater home?
You know how after hours of exploring the walls gave way, and you doubled back and you saw it right there – a heart glittering with a colour scheme
that, in a decade and a half, would make approximately a third of this game’s original audience incandescent with rage? You know how
you swim through it and a theme starts up – you know the one – and your body lights up and that low-res blue is sweeping beneath you as you rocket around it, tasting invinci-
bility for a hot half-minute, your white wake smoking, before you were back to yourself again? You know that feeling? You probably don’t. But since we’ve met,
I think that rainbow-heart power-ups do turn up occasionally, in the old passages, when I look. I’ll tell you more in the morning.
Tim Kiely is a criminal barrister and poet based in east London. His work has appeared in Magma, Under the Radar, South Bank Poetry, Atrium, Impossible Architecture, Fly on the Wall and Ink, Sweat & Tears, as well as anthologies from the Emma Press, Renard Press, the Ginkgo Prize for Ecopoetryand the Verve Poetry Festival Competition. He is a member of Poetry on the Picket Line and occasional contributor to the work of the Poets Versus collective and Poets for the Planet. He is the author of three poetry pamphlets: Hymn to the Smoke (with Indigo Dreams); Plaque for the Unknown Socialist (with Back Room Poetry); and No Other Life (with VOLE Books), all of which can be purchased from him at timkielybooks.bigcartel.com. timkielypoetry.wordpress.com Facebook: facebook.com/timkielypoetry Instagram @timkiely1
Tim: “As much as it will sound like a cliché, the central image of this poem came to me in a dream: playing a video game in the 1990’s, when I would have been under 10. I had an extremely vivid sense of this when I woke up – that I had been controlling some manner of fish, piloting them around an environment that stood out in my mind in all its blocky, low-polygon glory… and yet which I could verify when I woke up I could not possibly have played, because I had never owned any such game or known anyone who did. I can’t even verify if such a game ever existed – though I’m open to hearing about potential candidates!
This got me thinking about various things, including the perils and shortcomings of memory, the attractions of nostalgia and the intrigues of alternative history. The significance of a power-up coming in the form of a rainbow heart which bestows a temporary invincibility, I will leave to you – certainly the games of my youth were full of similar artefacts, and it can be invigorating to cast a reappraising eye back on them.
‘Gamer culture’ (to the extent that one can really talk about it as a singular thing) has had its fair share of tussles over history, legacy and the appropriate means of responding critically to the medium, and so I also wanted to explore that from a more open, generous and indeed playful angle.”
Niall: “I was surprised that there weren’t many poems about video games among the submissions as I’m very interested in how poetry can commentate and even steal from the medium. This poem perfectly captures the chromatic intensity of video games played during decades that were far more drab than popular culture remembers them to be. The poem itself, with its devious stanza breaks and breathless delivery, faithfully recreates that same irresistible momentum of a 16-bit platformer, even when it turns out to be a love poem in disguise all along.”
Di Slaney I was Dolly Parton’s first harmonica
before she thrummed the dulcimer before she plucked the banjo before she trilled the saxophone before she stroked piano before she flaunted fiddle before she flirted violin before she cradled autoharp before she guitared spin before she blew recorder like the west wind hauling in before she broke her heartstrings to that girl on mandolin
and her soft breath filled and lifted me and she puckered clean and high and her flicking tongue chugged rhythm and her bent notes made them sigh and her lips were bright and pillowed and she tasted sweet and light and this little red smear lingers like her whispered lullaby
Di Slaney lives in Nottinghamshire where she runs livestock sanctuary Manor Farm Charitable Trust and independent publisher Candlestick Press. She was the winner of The Plough Poetry Prize 2022, Slipstream Open 2023, Four Corners 2015 and Brittle Star 2014 poetry competitions. Her poems have been broadcast on BBC Radio 4, widely anthologised and highly commended in the Forward Prize 2016 and Bridport Prize 2020. Journal publications include Poetry Wales, Popshot, Magma, The Rialto, The Interpreter’s House, Iamb, Raceme and Brittle Star. Her first collection Reward for Winter was published in 2016 and second collection Herd Queen in 2020, both by Valley Press. She is poet in residence for Nottinghamshire Local History Association. Twitter @dislaney Facebook Di Slaney
Sam Szanto The Mother
after Joelle Taylor
LX – Lighting Direction; signifies a change in lighting FX – Sound Direction; signifies a change in sound
Scene One
INTERIOR: A bedroom in a small end-terrace / The red curtains are closed / A man lies in a queen-sized bed / A mother wearing a Victorian nightdress, black tape masking sections of her face, is on a step-ladder / She holds a feather duster / Beside the bed is a Moses basket, a baby asleep inside it / A pair of pliers rests on a book of poetry
ZOOM TO: A clock on the wall running backwards, ticking loudly
LX1: Light falls in silver scars on a red pile carpet / The mother stretches to worry a cobweb
FXI: Birdsong / Snarfling / Full-throated crying / The mother picks up the baby / The duster in her other hand / She sings a made-up lullaby / Puts the baby to her breast / Makes a noise like walking on bleeding feet / The man sits bolt upright / Takes up the pliers
LX2: The lights flicker / Please take our baby, the mother says / After the rewiring, the man replies
PULL FOCUS: The man kneels on the bed / The baby is still feeding / With the pliers, the man pulls a milky-blue cord from the woman’s head, leaving a ragged hole / The cord stretches to the floor / Into the hole, he feeds red cord / Things will work better from now on, he says / The baby wakes and wolf-howls / The man tosses him in the air and catches him
FX2: The baby is sirening / Take him out in the pram, the man says, yawning. The movement helps him sleep / The mother leaves with the baby, tripping over the milky-blue cord / She winds it up and throws it away / The man snores
CUT
Scene Two
INTERIOR: The mother kisses her baby then passes him to a faceless woman / She puts on a pair of trainers / Picks up a notebook / There is a stopwatch on her forehead / She walks out of the room but does not leave it
CUT
Sam Szanto lives in Durham, UK. Her collaborative pamphlet, Splashing Pink was published by Hedgehog Press and is a Poetry Book Society Winter 2023 Pamphlet Choice. Her pamphlet This Was Your Mother was one of the winners of the 2023 Dreich Slims Contest and will be published in 2024. She won the 2020 Charroux Poetry Prize and the First Writer International Poetry Prize, and her poetry has been placed in many international journals including The North, Northern Gravy and The Storms. She was awarded an MA with distinction from the Poetry School / Newcastle University in 2023. Her short story collection was published by Alien Buddha Press. Find her on Facebook at sam-szanto and on her website at samszanto.com
David Van-Cauter The Rules
At first we threw our stones into the sea like they were distance markers. What are the rules? I said. Who needs them? you replied and kept on throwing.
Then, drifting into sight, a wicker skeleton, its ragged framework now our target – contact, stone to cage, one point per hit.
The tide was coming in. We saw it was a lobster pot, cut loose, rotating, free. As it turned, a hole revealed itself – we aimed for that.
Closer, easier, till it rested there, basket side up. The challenge now: how close we could both get without our feet touching the water, our footsteps folding stones together, trying not to fall.
I wish we could have stayed on that beach like wayward lobster pots, tossing these rules away.
David Van-Cauter is a personal tutor based in Hitchin, Herts. He is a founder member of Poetry ID (Letchworth). His pamphlet Mirror Lake was published by Arenig in 2019. Recent poems have appeared online via Ink, Sweat and Tears, the London Progressive Journal and the Poetry Society Stanza competition. His film-poem ‘Smoke & Mirrors’ can be viewed here: https://youtu.be/ekGtigL2RhA. Facebook: David Van-Cauter. Twitter: @DVCwins
Max Terry Fishel Playtime
out in the cold nobody wants to play with her she wraps her arms round the dead boy she found in the hedge by the school gates the bell rings to go in the boy opens his eyes she has found a new playmate
they learn to dance
happy
until
the bell rings and the boy
the boy
returns to the hedge by the school gate and she goes in
alone
again
Max Terry Fishel was born at a very early age in Liverpool, now resides London. European Jewish ancestry. Plays Irish music, writes poems, worries about hair loss. Mainly analogue, partly digital. Has been published a bit. Loves performing at spoken word open mics (some clips on YouTube). Thinks love is best.
Carole Bromley Thinking of My Dad while Playing Minecraft
Today I’m building a skyscraper, I’m imagining it’s in New York. It will be the tallest on the skyline
You were tall, so tall I thought of you as a massive tower no-one could knock down
The bricks in my skyscraper are white, they will reflect the sun and make passers-by blink
How white you were that last time, when I crept onto your bed
At the top of my skyscraper I will design a roof garden with real grass and blossom trees
You loved your garden, making things grow with your strong hands
The windows in my skyscraper will be of mirrored glass, flashing light, dazzling the people looking up
When I grow up, dad, I’ll be an architect. I’ll build whole beautiful gleaming cities of light
Just now I’ve only managed to build up to the second storey but I’ll get there, you’ll see. My skyscraper will touch the clouds by teatime.
Carole Bromley lives in York where she is the Stanza rep and runs poetry surgeries. Three books with Smith/Doorstop, including one for children, Blast Off! (2017) and one book with Valley Press, The Peregrine Falcons of York Minster (2020). Carole writes for both adults and children, was the 2022 winner of the Caterpillar Prize and a previous winner of the Hamish Canham Award and the Bridport Prize. She has tutored for Arvon and in 2024 will be running a course at the Garsdale Retreat on Writing Poetry for Children. Her poems have appeared recently in The Poetry Review, The North, Alchemy Spoon and Finished Creatures and her children’s poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Northern Gravy, Tyger, Tyger, The Toy, Little Thoughts Press, Paperbound, Paper Lanterns and The Dirigible Balloon. Twitter: @CaroleBromley1 Facebook: Carole Bromley www.carolebromleypoetry.co.uk
Jane Burn The Sound of Dancing in My Head
I used to be a horse – the shape of this old bone will tell you so. For years I held the sound of dancing in my head – captured every footfall clopping through the floor. Quick-heel, toe-tap-toe, I ate the sound of happiness; drummed in each reel, slip and jig before echoing them back –
I made that room above me swell with sound. They had to wait till I was dead – till my pelt slipped its silk of grey hairs, till my forelock unwound from between my ears before they could tomb me here. Once I wore the wind, let it tangle the threads of my mane.
Once I felt the rain, knew the taste of sweet spring grass. Once I pulled sleds of peat, nimbled back from the shore laden with baskets of slick, green weed. I swear I can chew on the salt-air still, though the beat-beat-beat of their lively tread
has rattled away my teeth. They put me under the boards, patted the kite of my bald brow before nailing me into this coffin stall. This was heaven as a hollow church of song. Once each soft-shell pinna would have flickered
forward, side and back to latch upon each otic tremble in the air. They nailed my bone into an eternity of listening – my afterlife beneath the boards, while people played above. Each lick of pipe, pluck of cruit, slice of fiddle lived loud in the space of my skull.
I kept each céilídhe in my hidden crypt, tasted their swirling steps with the ghostly buds of my tongue. Perhaps one day they will sing for me again. I dream through the dust of their joy.
Note: It was once a tradition in Ireland to hide the skull of a horse inside a wall or under the floorboards of homes and halls as it was believed it would amplify the sound of music and dancing feet and give a wonderful echo.
Jane Burn is an award-winning poet, artist, and hybrid writer. She is a working-class, pansexual person with autism and has an MA in Writing Poetry from Newcastle University, where she won the 2022 academic prize for best overall performance. In 2022, Jane explored her neurodivergent writer’s theories funded by Arts Council England and is currently putting these ideas into a book. In 2023 she was awarded a grant by the Royal Literary Fund to continue her writing. Her poems are widely published and anthologised. Her latest collection, Be Feared, is available from Nine Arches press, and her new collection, The Apothecary of Flight is due out in 2024, also from Nine Arches Press. Passionate about nature and the environment, she lives off-grid with her family in a painstakingly restored 1920s wooden cottage in Northumberland for most of the year. Jane is hoping to find the right establishment in which to pursue a creative writing PhD.
Charlie Jolley When Bowie Died
My mum crumpled on the bed like a damp tissue, cold quilt slumped over her like a dead body.
On the radio, Letter to Hermione streaked through the silence, and Bowie sang of a hot box room
in mid-summer, posters peeling from the walls like dead skin. He sang of bomber-jacketed boys
with loose smiles, and of the hair-clip gash her sister left on milk skin when she was just a baby.
He sang about never fitting in, never feeling enough, for the girl who cradled her black-swelled arms
under the duvet like the breath of a newborn, his soft hums swaying her to sleep.
Charlie Jolley is a young poet and fiction writer. She is a member of Sheffield Young Writers and a top 15 winner of the Foyle Young Poets of the Year Award. She is also the winner of the Hexham Young People’s Poetry Competition 2023, placed second in the Charles Causley Trust Young People’s Poetry Competition 2023, and was highly commended in the Wales Young Poet Award 2020. She has been published by The Poetry Society, Zoetic Press, Mutabilis Press, and in Hive anthologies Dear Life and After Hours.
Niall: “This poem faithfully portrays those hopefully occasional moments when a child becomes the parent to their own parent. It also touches on that strange, disembodied grief that marks the end of a parasocial relationship. It begins with the image of the mother playing the role of a dead body under a sheet but by the end of the poem — after Bowie’s music is played and his soul seems to rise again — the adult remains in the same position but is now breathing like a newborn. Within the space of a song, the dead are born again.”
Allison Xu Zipline
I thrust forward like a paper plane launched from a playful hand, breaking into the monotony of a dormant world. I am a stream of light winking free from gravity’s grasp. The wind hardens the air into a roar that thrums past me.
I’m in a race against myself, soaked in the ecstasy of chasing the horizon that once seemed remote. I begin to wonder what if life were like this? Sprint toward our goal, moving as if flying with superpowers, unleashed from the hesitation, from the back-and-forth, from the hassle of experimenting, from the pain of loss.
Yet, would I miss the stroll on the rain-softened road, or the solace of rubbing warmth into my cold hands, or the joy of navigating a tapestry of intertwining trails?
As speed lands me to the embrace of the earth, grass cushions beneath my feet, I stand still, blending in the subtle rhythm of the city dappled in sunlight. Nearby, little kids stamp their feet, tottering forward, their laughter ringing like the trills of songbirds.
Allison Xu is a high school student from Maryland, USA. She is the 2023 Youth Poet Laureate of Montgomery County. Her poetry and short stories have been published in Blue Marble Review, The Daphne Review, Paper Lanterns, and more. Her work has been recognized by the New York Times, Scholastic Arts & Writing Awards, Bluefire Creative Writing Contest, Kay Snow Writing Contest, etc. When she’s not writing, she enjoys reading, baking, and playing with her beagle. Twitter: @Allisonx_Writes
Niall: “Only a natural born poet would be able to summon a moment on introspection about the pace of their oncoming adult life while riding on a zip-line! And yet, the poem seems prescient in that very sense, in that feeling of time accelarating year after year. As the poet ends their brief, introspective thrill ride they become aware of the laughter of little children, almost as if they are being reminded that their own childhood is still there to be enjoyed. This poem is light on its feet, letting each thrill, reflection and epiphany fly by before sticking the landing.”
Maya Doherty Do You Want To Come Play With Me?
I hear her hurried footsteps pounding against the stairs. The determined pitter-patter of her feet Then three loud knocks on my bedroom door. She stands in front of me, suddenly shy, before quietly saying, “Do you want to come play with me?” Now I’m nearly eighteen, I know I’m too old to play. Just as I’m about to make up some excuse about schoolwork or chores, she pulls out her greatest weapon: I find myself staring into her puppy dog eyes and have no choice but to give in The bright smile that splits her face confirms I’ve made the right choice. I spent my evening dressed up as some silly princess. And even though I feel ridiculous in the much too small dress and the cheap plastic tiara The smile on her face, so bright it lights up the whole room, makes it all worth it. Besides, even teenagers need to play sometimes.
I hear the thud, thud, thud of her running up the stairs. The stomps of her feet as she walks through the hall Then the slam of her door. I wait a few minutes before rushing up the stairs after her. After three knocks, I’m allowed to enter her fortress. Her eyes are red and puffy; she’s been crying. This isn’t strange for her, not these days anyway. My mum says that’s just how teenage girls are. She quickly wipes her tears away and plasters on a half-hearted smile. I stand shyly in front of her, not knowing what to say. Then I ask, “Do you want to come play with me?” I know she thinks she’s too old to play; after all, she’s nearly eighteen. But she can never say no to me. We spent the evening playing pretend in my best princess dresses. She acts as though she’s embarrassed to be playing with me. But I know she’s only putting it on. It’s the first time I’ve seen her really smile in months. It seems as though even teenagers need to play sometimes.
Maya Doherty is a seventeen-year-old from a small town in Ireland. She is currently a sixth form student studying English Literature, History and Health & Social Care for her A-levels. She developed a keen interest in poetry in October of last year following a surgery that left her mostly confined to her bed, with not much else to do she began to read and write poetry. Writing poetry began as a way to express her emotions but quickly developed into something she had a genuine love and passion for. Some of her favourite poets include Seamus Heaney, Robert Frost, Emily Dickinson and Sylvia Plath.
Maya: “This poem was inspired by something that happens fairly often in my house. When I get home from school there’s a high likelihood that I’ll stomp up to my room without even saying hello to my family. By this point, everyone in the house is used to it and they mostly leave me be because, in their eyes, I’m acting exactly as any stressed out teenager would. My little sister, on the other hand, refuses to accept this. Every day she’ll follow me up to my room and ask me a barrage of questions about my day. Being the moody teenager I am, I usually tell her to go away and slam the door, but one day, for whatever reason, I let her talk away to me. After blabbering on for a while, she asked me if I would come play princesses with her. I, of course, immediately declined but she was very determined and eventually I gave in. After I had been playing with her for about half an hour I realised that I hadn’t felt that calm since before school began, which is when I started to question my sister’s true motives. Usually she doesn’t want me to play with her because she gets sick of scolding me for not doing the right voices or actions, so I asked her why she wanted to play with me all of a sudden. She told me that playing with her friends always makes her feel better when she’s sad. It was then that I realised she hadn’t been trying to annoy me all those times she followed me up to my room, she’d been trying to cheer me up.”
Niall: “There is a melancholic quality to this poem, the recognition of the first speaker that this is the final stretch of their own childhood, before that sadness is interrupted by the puppy-dog-eyed petition of a younger sibling. I loved the little twist in the second stanza, when the speaker becomes the younger sister; how this moment of losing oneself in play represents that there is still a bridge for the older sister back into the joys of childhood, how this world is never fully left behind.”
Emily Morrell The Sound of a Soul
I wait; I wait, and then I press shuffle. The in-weaving arrows dictate my heart, peace at last – in symphony with the ceiling and a second, or so, of silence
then sound begins. Adjusting tempo as it continues – the thumping in my chest slows. I have sung this one before it seems.
Bass passes through me. The melody it; controls, flows, puppeteers me. The melody it knows peace.
The song will end soon. An exorcism of emotion coming to a close the thumping slows – barely detectable, and a second, or so, of silence
then sound begins.
Michelle Garrick The Sidelines
Equal chance, equal chance, that is what everyone preaches but I’m not sure it’s often given. Who am I to judge? Then I realise I am someone who has undeniably been through a lot. It is just a sport to others but to me, it is just as important as anything. The whistle is blown and the toes on my feet are ready to go. Sticking on to my Player, being my best but when it’s all judged by one moment. become a mess. I think what about the rest (my team). The faces of my team mates when I make that one interception is all I need to see, Feeling like a top player, if only it were that easy. When it comes to everything I have typically been outshined in every nook and cranny of my life you easily see why A typical sports man, would know nothing hurts more than when the coach puts you off your feet Sitting on the bench again and again, 5 times a match is my record When will I play again let’s get to it. Every interval is my supposed chance but every half I’m swapped off Struggling not to cry because that looks unprofessional But I’m 11 and just learning to be honest I am trying to be special Normally hoping to blend in With my dark hair and dark skin, I have had my fair share of nasty looks from the opposite team Making me question everything I have ever worked for, A time in my life where all I could write or read was dark Because of one coach who didn’t believe in me Now I remember this and look back at the past On your player, on your player that one teacher would say His forte wasn’t netball but he still enjoyed to play Anyone and anybody that will validate me, that is the attention seeker that I know I became I take it with my confidence high, Because I try to remember it when I hit low times So I’m sat on the bench and my held as high as I can, Hiding my tears, ready to work even harder and be the Best, I know what I used to do was wrong, Letting my feelings override my sport, but the truth is your good or your not. At the start of the poem I was going to try and let you see many flaws, in the way teams work. Now I realise this just means more hard work! I must get what I want. I will be fulfilled.
Michelle Li Growing up in Pieces
moss draping from trees; green curtains covering the seeping evening sun, a blood orange pressed against the dusk; our legs, littered with purple bruises, dangling from the bench. the metallic scent of sunscreen lingers in the distance.
it’s just us children, with six wide-eyed years between us; before we would know the definition of America and growing up—can’t remember her face anymore.
softball bats & gatorade & summer. shortstop by the grass—counting the white flowers instead of paying attention at practice. when you’re young, there seems to be an lid to the sky, capping the pink clouds in your sight under the same roof as the crawling ants & the music on the radio. play hard, learn to cry, they told us. but all i knew was how to say excuse me and to kiss the coloring of the bruised sky.
you know growing up starts when you realize the bruises on your knees can be formed in more ways than just accidental brushes of pain
when you spend more time looking back on life than actually living it; is that called insanity or poetry?
step back. you’ve seen the tapestry of childhood. we’ll wait for time to pluck those white flowers by the petals and scatter them amongst the dimming horizon.
Michelle Li lives in the USA and loves writing. She has been recognised by Scholastic Art and Writing, Poetry Nation, published in A Celebration of Poets, Quills and Keyboard, and Idle Ink, among others. You can find her on the board of Pen&Quill Magazine. She also loves reading—she’ll read practically anything she can get her hands on, the more absurd and emotional the work, the better, and plays piano and violin. Lastly, she has an unhealthy obsession with cheese, morally grey characters, and Sylvia Plath.
Lottie Hughes Stay
They call it doom scrolling I call it time-wasting I watch the clip twenty-something times Then scroll and repeat Like an engraved routine (like a ritual)
I see the pixels in my dreams My doctor called it snowfall vision But my sister calls it static When she pops home once a year At least I stayed to play the good daughter (I swear I’m not bitter)
Rolling to a halt with a screech The messages fall in, cut deep I don’t respond, mum said it’s a waste of time Cowards in person but Distorted through screens (were they always this mean?)
I pause the TV, Feel the silence like its blistering
My friend’s favourite show, She came round every other day Just to watch it with me If I’d just turned the volume down I’d have known that she’d came round for me. (at least I got to kiss her in my dreams)
Small village life has its charms Until a family walk past my house And I hear the laughter like a bullet to younger me I did my doll’s voices in my head, Because a quiet child was a good child But at least I got to play. (for once I’ve got nothing else to say)
Lottie Hughes is a sixth former from Chester. She spends her days reading Jane Austen novels and writing poetry. When her sister read this poem, she said it was about a disconnection from reality due to social media. To Lottie it was a bunch of rambles thrown haphazardly into stanzas, so she is thankful to have someone intelligent in the family, even if she does live 10 million miles away.
Acacia da Costa Vieira Park Adventure
I went to play in the park I made new friends Jumping and dancing It will never end.
Second day in the park And we saw a Dinosaur! Looking up at the sky It made a big Roar!
Now we are friends with the Dinosaur Scream and play Singing and dancing We were so crazy.
We went to the park again It was so much fun We didn’t want to leave From the big, beautiful sun.
Acacia da Costa Vieira was born in Great Yarmouth in 2014. Her name is Acacia because she was born on the same day as the city of Benguela in Angola, ‘Acacia Rubas’ celebrates its birthday, and the city has many Acacia trees. Acacia’s mother is from the Republic of Cabo Verde and her father is from Angola. She likes playing the violin, recorder and piano, loves to write poems and stories and also robots – one day she is going to build one that combs her hair and becomes her friend.
Stevie Green Ode to a nil-nil draw in pre-season
Ninety-five people have travelled from all over the borough to be here tonight, leaving our scarves at home, and we’re searching for a promise of life beyond the turnstiles and an end to the summer break sadness, for an abundance of ordinary delights.
Like a cross, floated in from the left-hand touchline / a goalkeeper falling to their side to gather a low drive / a tray of chips left to oxidise for too long and now have the consistency of credit cards / swapping homemade stickers that’ll appear on bus stops and in men’s rooms across the city from tomorrow morning / cheering a midfielder who’s missed having someone to kick every week, and has picked up a yellow card just to feel something.
Being content is listening to two old boys discussing how good the opposition striker was last season twirling polystyrene coffee cups as they lean against the barrier on a jacketless Tuesday night, deciphering the secrets spoken over the tannoy. The impossible green of the pitch, carpeted for summer, though as even as an ocean wave.
Joy is reimagining the lyrics to pop songs for a team that will perennially represent its factories and railway stations with people you’ve grown up with and held on to. There’s nothing to play for tonight but we’re all happy to be here.
Stevie Green is a poet from Birmingham. He refers to his work as his ‘mad little essays’ and took to writing poetry in an attempt to romanticise his own life because nobody else would. He is currently working on his first collection. He now lives in Walthamstow, London. Insta: @stevenhamezgreen Twitter: StevieGreenXI
Stevie: “I wrote the poem over the summer when pre-season football returned. Since moving to Walthamstow I’ve become enamoured with the local club and love the community it has built up. There’s a certain romance about non-league football that doesn’t exist in the same way further up the chain and I wanted to capture that and combine it with my delight at being back in the stadium after a few months away.”
Niall: “This poem leans giddily into the pointlessness of the spectacle itself, a goalless stalemate that, being a pre-season friendly, doesn’t even bag a point for either team. What’s left is human connection, a place to really belong, how a town becomes more that its constituent “factories and railway stations” when the whistle blows. The game itself manifests as a breathless paragraph, gone too quickly, while the buildup and aftermath appear as more measured, double spaced stanzas. Football is a different experience when it’s not viewed on a TV, especially in the rungs below the top flight. This poem captures that feeling of being there, really being there, for a zero-stake evening of ‘ordinary delights’.”
JP Seabright FX
Locked in your Foley box I watch you at work. Creating creaks and groans, the swish of the curtains the crunching of gravel, seagulls on the horizon, background laughter, the tinkling of glasses and the occasional scream. I ask you a question and you respond in sound.
It’s nice to see you. A pair of gloves sounds like bird wings flapping. Would you like to sit down? An old chair makes a controllable creaking sound. Would you like a drink? Walnuts are used in place of ice cubes in a glass of water because they do not melt. How have you been? An arrow or thin stick makes a whoosh sound. I’ve missed you. Frozen romaine lettuce makes bone or head injury noises. Are we good now? Cellophane creates crackling fire effects. Do you still love me? Burning plastic garbage bags cut into strips makes a realistic sounding candle or soft non-crackling fire when the bag melts and drips to the ground.
JP Seabright is a queer disabled writer and editor living in London. They have four solo pamphlets published and two collaborative works. They have also been published in Rialto, One Hand Clapping, Pamenar Press, Fourteen Poems, Culture Matters and Under the Radar (forthcoming) as well as being widely anthologised. They explore themes of gender, sexuality, trauma and the climate crisis in their work spanning poetry, prose, experimental and audio/visual pieces. They have been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net, and Forward Prize. https://twitter.com/errormessage https://www.facebook.com/jp.seabright
JP: “The idea for this came from a long-term interest in sound and sound effects and a late night trawl on the web on the origins of the Foley box. I was so taken with the descriptions of techniques used to create common sound effects that I decided to incorporate that into a poem and see what narrative story this was trying to tell – putting the background noise at the forefront as a character in itself.”
Niall: “The saddest exchanges can still be relayed with a sense of fun. An interlocutor asks a series of gradually personal and probing questions but their interviewee can only respond in the secret language of sound effects. Are these answers, whether they be walnuts in a glass or an eviscerated lettuce, evasive in their avoidance of speech or are they more honest in their attempts to speak the unspeakable? The sound artist cannot help but remind me of the lyric poet themselves, with their unwieldy images and metaphors for all the intense feelings that cannot be conveyed by plain speak. This poem perfectly marries a sense of exploration and fun with the lowkey tragedy of a relationship where both parties have run out of things to say.”
Helen Maurer Lilo
Picture credit Sebastian Sharples
Helen Maurer is a visual artist working primarily with glass and light. Her interest in poetry started with a present, having been given a poetry course for her 50th birthday. She has continued to take courses at the Poetry School for the past six years, trying to discover her approach to writing. She often writes about what she has noticed or heard day to day and things she doesn’t want to forget. Poems are sometimes connected to the act of making visual art, using that process as a prompt for writing. This is the first time she has been placed in a competition and shared work in this way! Maurer was born in Portsmouth and has lived and worked in London for 30 years.
Helen: “We had a small outdoor pool at our primary school. ‘Lilo’ started there, merging memories of summer holidays, then moving towards the idea of floating and surrendering. I have always loved inflatables, the smell of them, unfolding them and blowing them up, their being able to support you, I associate them with playing and being a lot of fun! I often think about the layout of the poem and whether that can contribute to the idea and suggest a way to write it. In ‘Lilo’, I let the words float about, to drift and attach themselves to other words.”
Niall: “I’m glad that the theme of the competition gave poets an opportunity to play around with the idea of what a poem can be. Negative space transforms into an undulating surface of blue parentheses, punctuated by pared down images and phrases. It’s easy for a concrete poem to be hamstrung by its own gimmicky conceit, but this poem becomes a more reflective, meditative opportunity for the reader to dive back in again and again, in the same way that we can vanish for a moment into the bright memory of a long-gone summer.”
Michael Shann Italian goalpost, Wanstead Flats
Shakira Lahbib Bled on the Bricks
In a night the summer had almost sunk and the rubble churned out an orange smoke that swallowed the fig and her tree
A house is home, until it is not when Earth decides to unleash her knot but small feet in the shadows run free
Laughter rings over red dust and debris tracing fingers along a fractured wall so playtime awakes on the bricks
Mothers kneel and cradle the cinders whilst others whisper words to withered sisters but on waters a child throws sticks
Under and over and through the drylands the sun beats her breath on the bygone crop while small hands collect stones to skim
Now youth unfolds between crimson rubble the stream sings a song and back it is sung, the children and water akin
*Bled comes from the Arabic word balad, البل د or بلد , it can refer to a country, a city or town. Here, it refers to Morocco. It is used by North Africans and their diaspora to refer to their country of origin. More than that, it means to have a place of true belonging, a sense of home.
Shakira Lahbib is a 21-year-old undergraduate reading English at Cambridge University. She has lived in Walthamstow all her life and spends a lot of time on the handy and glorious Victoria Line. Among many others, this is where she wrote the poem Bled on the Bricks. But as much as this poem is about the children of Morocco finding and creating play amidst the rubble after the earthquakes in Morocco, it is about the beloved children of Palestine who often have known no other form of play than that which is fractured and disturbed in nature. Shakira extends her love to all the children in the world who play in these conditions.
Eithne Cullen A boy with a ball
A boy with a ball in a bag in his hands, running to find the space to play searches the plain desperate to play, to kick the ball high in the air, scoring goals, playing his best game.
A boy with a ball with a bag in his hands, a bright plastic bag, with a ball, in his hands, kicking and heading running so fast… and the wind takes the bag, his grip lets it fly – and it goes, like a balloon, a kite with no corners, a plastic ghost flies.
A boy with a ball watches the bag fly away it’s out of his reach, but the ball’s at his feet. And though he didn’t mean to, he’s letting it fly – till the wind takes a breath and the bag meets the lake.
Eithne Cullen was born in Dublin and moved to London when she was six years old, this experience has shaped the stories she tells. She had a successful career in education in east London. She has been writing seriously since she retired. Eithne has written two novels: The Ogress of Reading and Never Not in my Thoughts (published by New Generation) and a book of short stories, Pencils and Other Stories. Her pamphlet: The Smell of Dust was published in 2021. She was Plumstead poet laureate 2022-23. She is involved with the Pen to Print writing initiative, as a competition winner and running writing workshops. She is a page editor of the writing magazine Write On! A member of Forest Poets and Write Next Door, she has had poems and stories published in a number of magazines and anthologies. X: @eithne_cullen
Angelena Demaria Mystery play
On Sundays after winkle tea tucked tight in bed I’d hear the children scream,
get up to watch them hop-step barefoot down the jagged path as though over Hell’s paving to our street’s only telephone in its red beacon box below my window.
I never saw their mother. When we played hide and seek between friend’s houses in the summer dusk Mum always told me sternly, ‘Don’t go in that house.’
It was the voice she used about sweets and strangers. I was no rebel, went where my mates went, but not that dark passageway of secrets,
sensed with some extra faculty that anchored me outside the scuffed front door.
Angelena Demaria is a long term member of Forest Poets. She lives in Walthamstow and was successful in the very first Waltham Forest Poetry Competition in 2018, judged by Meryl Pugh.
Angelena is co-founder of a brand new poetry group, Chingford Station Poets. Everyone welcome.
Martin Frimet Play and Age
The babe, in golden light Its toy, thrust out, Fingers rapt, alive A toothless smile A hiccough-chuckle-gurgle Goo-gaa, raa-goo, goo-daa Some crazy melody Still, a certain symphony
But, older now Fingers flat, slack Facing down Controlled Remote Some darker energy
Rise up, dear child A song to sing A bell to ring A rhyme Or not, A shot That’s just for you
And we’ll be singing too Goo-gaa, raa-goo, goo-daa
Martin Frimet has always loved words and writing and in the last couple of years has been trying to reconnect with this passion. This took him through trying to write some fiction and comedy, but he often found that he struggled to write something that felt really personal or fresh. For this – and various other – reasons he has increasingly been trying to move away from spending time in his head to spending more time with his heart. Play and creativity has been an important part of that change and so the theme of this year’s competition really appealed to him. This is pretty much the first poem he has ever written so he is absolutely chuffed to be commended!
Lois Roberts Beware of the Trains
We ran on parallel tracks and ignored the signals.
It’s only a game you see and there can’t be casualties when you’ve made up the rules.
Passed the model homes we sped grateful we didn’t have to enter.
Momentum was our shelter, onwards and faster!
Inevitable, I said, collision forecast you said.
A beautiful catastrophe, a winter accident.
I licked your blood from the snow, you kissed my crooked tooth,
and in silence we reset the trains, ready to play again.
Lois Roberts grew up in a small rural village in North Yorkshire, but has lived in Walthamstow for ten years and recently re-joined the Forest Poets after a hiatus. Lois studied English Literature and Drama at Queen Mary’s University where she was a member of the creative writing club and has had an interest in writing poetry from an early age.
She has worked on developing her writing style through a number courses and local writing groups, working with poets such Wayne Holloway-Smith. Lois has worked full time in the NHS for the last 20 years at University College Hospital predominately managing Cancer Services and Research and helping to introduce new cancer treatments and techniques into the NHS.
She balances the demands of working in the NHS with a number of active hobbies and when not sipping coffee in the William Morris Gallery pondering poetry, might be found up a climbing wall or wrestling with a sail. Lois had a poem shortlisted by Joelle Taylor for the Walthamstow poetry prize in 2021 (Blinkers) and her poetry pamphlet was shortlisted for the Mslexia pamphlet poetry competition last year.
She has recently completed an MBA and is looking forward to dedicating more time to poetry in the coming year.
Taqwa Malik Playing With My Neighbours Cat
The sun was shining from way up high, a bright shade of blue blanketed the sky, the birds above soared high into the clouds, A huge summer festival was dotted with crowds The smell of sweet buttery corn filled the air, I had to leave, it was not fair, a dozen drops of rain fell to the ground, I rushed back home, And saw a tiny round furball sitting down, I looked like a clown, my eyes widened big and sharp, fixed on the cutest thing I could ever see, I ran and ran And just had fun, Sitting there for hours With a smile on my face, When his fluffy tail trotted back in, My smile faded away
Taqwa Malik is 10 years old and attends Longshaw Primary Academy in Chingford. Her favourite subjects in school are art and PE. When she is not at school, Taqwa likes to spend time with her family which consists of her mum, dad, older brother and older sister. She was inspired to write her poem about her neighbour’s cat, Astro, because he regularly pays her family a visit. He is a white and grey Somali cat who is very loving and Taqwa has formed a wonderful bond with him.
Hilda Finch The Playful Turtle
There once was a turtle called Mertal, Who lived in a house that was purple, And he like to play basketball, He had a basketball court in his garden Which he got for a bargain
One day Mertal woke up to find he was burping, So he decided to make a new game called burping ball, He became famous!
Mertal the burping turtle, After that he thought he was extremely cool, He went to bed wearing sunglasses, He was a burping fool!
Hilda Finch has a brother called Rufus. She really, really likes sausage dogs because they are so cute. Her favourite colour is pink, especially light pink. Her favourite subject in school is handwriting because she wants to improve. She is 8 years old and goes to Henry Maynard Primary School. She wrote this poem because she wanted to make people laugh, and because sea turtles are endangered.
Brodie Goldhill Toilet Defenders
This game is on Roblox, It’s fun for me to play, But you have to fight in it, To get money and defender morphs, You have to kill ski-Berty toilets, Then you’ll get more morphs, Then there will be more waves, It’s fun for me to play, Yippy-yi yay, This a game, I like to play every single day.
Brodie Goldhill is seven years old and attends Longshaw Primary School in Chingford. He loves all subjects and always works hard and perseveres in whatever he does to get the task done well, both in his school life and anything he does outside of school too. Brodie enjoys games, especially computer games. He was inspired by a game called Roblox to write his poem. Brodie’s family, friends and all of the school community are very proud of his achievement.
L. A. Granski There’s a theatre on Fenwick
There’s a theatre on Fenwick, I’m a performer there, I’ve got the lead – God’s mighty trick, A blasé, yet zealous heir.
An estate from an uncle fresh deceased To common Merton Wright, Doubt plagues me, but all I can say at least: ‘Well, I’m rich alright.’
Some gung-ho crooks, they squeeze me thin So my friend jumps, in reckless style This martyr speaks, dim lights, cue grin: ‘In for an inch, in for a mile.’
My heart’s amour – Loraine Claymore, Quaint girl of twenty-four, I tease her, then she speaks with playful lore: ‘Buzz off from here, you eyesore!’
Down on my luck, covered in muck, where only vagrant lays, Sit still as duck, chap says: ‘Chin up!’ I do. A chic tycoon dusts my couture and says: ‘I’ll fix you up.’
There’s a theatre on Fenwick, I take a bow, watch as I soar, The people cheer – très magnifique! I’m now myself once more.
Then I step out, as Otto Sprout, Down to some pub for a hook-up Lad sees me, drunk, rude words I spout, And says: ‘I’ll fix you up.
I’m off, perfumed, for rendezvous My face still caked with gore, My sweet date blinks, a rock she threw: ‘Buzz off from here, you eyesore!’
‘No more I’ll loan.’ con’s voice had told Those words grotesque and vile I’d borrowed some, increased ten-fold, ‘In for an inch, in for a mile.’
My part brings pain – misery double! My crowd’s the moon tonight, Comedy crude – can’t help my chuckle: ‘Well… I’m rich, alright.’
L.A. Granski is a first-gen immigrant studying politics, history and sociology at Monoux College, with the aspirations of activating as a politician in her home country of Moldova. Granski also plans on one day starting a business in the animation/entertainment industry, writing and directing her own shows.
Considers a hobby in voice-acting. Does a good Bubbles impression.
Frankie Goldhill Far In The Past
Time has flew by Now I am twelve Haven’t played in forever It sounds a bit much But far in the past From what I remember I fought dragons and pirates And such fun I had To laugh and sway I wish I could go back to the good old days
When I had no school And ran around worry free Building castles in my head And climbing trees Running in fields And planting flower seeds I had endless energy Feeling I could touch the sky I hope I don’t forget I can’t even lie
But now I do work everyday Maths and English There’s no time to play Play in the garden Or at the park Or in the forest and with toys Only work, work work This isn’t my choice
I wish I could go back to the good old days Fun in the past When I dreamt of rainbows and unicorns And planets of fun This never happens anymore What have I done My brains grey and dull I dream of going back But that wish can never come true And that is a fact
Frankie Goldhill is twelve years old and attends Highams Park Secondary school and is already excelling in all her subjects. Frankie loves school life and learning. As such, she is an avid reader and is equally as keen at writing. Her creativity, imagination and writing skill shines through all her compositions, regardless of text type or genre. As a skilled writer, Frankie is proficient in entertaining, intriguing, shocking and evoking many emotions in her audience. Frankie writes for pleasure and has entered this competition with her father’s encouragement. The theme for her poem play was inspired by her perception of how life is. Her family, friends and the whole school community are all very proud of what she has achieved – a very well-deserved commendation.
Iris Betts My violin
Hello, hello I’m here again Playing my old violin
It’s very loud It’s very squeaky I haven’t played in a while My skills are creaky
I want to be a rock chick So, I try to learn toxic Britney Spears ain’t calling me ‘Cause I’m quite appalling, me
I want to be first chair But I can’t play any Franz Schubert Sir Pappano said “We need a leader” Then I came along, and he said “We don’t need her”
I want to play country fiddle But the Cajun riffs are quite a riddle ‘Before he cheats’ is a good country song But I don’t think country’s where I belong
So, my options, I need to weigh But if I just practice everyday Maybe someone will finally say “You know what? I love to hear you play!”
Iris Betts is 12 years old and started writing poems as a way to make herself feel better when she was sad. Her mum loves poetry and has been an influence. Iris loves poetry by Harry Baker and she also loves raps – especially in Hamilton. She enjoys listening to and making music. She can play, you’ve guessed it, the violin. She loves singing and acting and she sometimes performs at the Royal Opera House in the Children’s Chorus of mainstage operas. She lives in Walthamstow. She has a pet cat called Beans (Instagram Beans.17) and rabbits called Luna Fluffgood and Hercules Fluffigan. She has a sister at university. She is in Year 8 at Willowfield School. She can wiggle her ears.
Marcia Ruby Jackson Riiing…
Riiing… A swarm of kids tumble out the classrooms, as they run to meet their friends, Ancient shoes thrown across the playground: Normally old lends, Old plastic water bottles kicked from foot- to foot as girls and boys chat and tag each other, all one in the playground holdings hands arm to arm all together Crunching crisps and swapping lolly pops As this is what we’re made for, Fresh doughnuts served in the pantry laid along the front which make our mouths – water, Riiing… Aaaaaaaw comes a sigh from all the energised kids, Crunching up crisp packets and screwing on lids, Another break time passed by, Also another pile of lost ties, But as this is what we’re made for we all wave goodbye Riiing…
Marcia Jackson is 11 years old and lives in Walthamstow. Marcia has a cat called Coco who likes to eat cheese. Marcia loves to go bike riding with her friends and make dance videos. She likes to draw cartoons of people she has seen in the street.
Michaela Eshun School Days
Running Like a horde of ducks On the rough concrete floor Squeals, giggles Light the air as we play
The bell calls us in Back to class, lessons, the standard
My standard day, in and out of school Slow strolls across the field With my friend, her eyes glitter We smile, laugh Keeling over in joy
Asteroids crash down Upon us Blazing footballs seared by the sun Maniacal shouting “OVER HERE! HEREEEEE! PASS THE BALL!”
We are now passive outsiders, in the game We watch, but we don’t play
Why? I pondered Korfball, skipping ropes, egg and spoon races An abundance of light Our weightless, lackadaisical nature whilst taking part
What changed? Childhood, isn’t a frozen relic of time It runs through us In out happiest and worst moments It thrives most when we play –
Before I can finish my thought The ball crashes down Cracking the parched field We continue walking, and smile Life is Fun!
Michaela Eshun is 15 years old. She likes reading, movies, and art. She was inspired to write this poem because the theme made her reflect on her time in primary school and her friends back then. The way she interacts with others has changed as she moved on to secondary school. It was challenging at first, but she learned to enjoy the new experience. This was her first time entering this competition, and she was surprised to see she was commended for her poem.
Nancy Hubbert Softer, Prettier
Rock hard concrete. It left grazes on your skin You cried for what felt like hours Your blood dried like a painting.
And the hair of your doll. Damaged like your mother’s Aggressively making her worse With brushes under duvet covers
Cold sickening Christmas Leaves toys under the tree Pine in the floorboards And kisses on your cheek
Plastic boats upon the water And you wished they would sink Red flag, orange lifejacket Finally, the perfect place to think
Princess dresses in your wardrobe School uniform in the back You didn’t like being yourself You made your mirror crack
And then there was makeup Like face paint on a clown And the clothes across the floor You felt you might drown
I saw your play last summer You looked right at home I lost my memory of you I didn’t think it was mine to own
Nancy Hubbert is a 15 year old aspiring poet from London. She is in her final year of secondary school, and is going on to study English literature, politics, psychology, and philosophy. She takes most of her inspiration from film and music, and is interested in exploring emotional intensity in art.
Susan Bowman The Nappies
I wondered down the garden path, past fence and privet, pond and trees, when all at once I caught a sight, one hundred nappies holding tight, playing and waving on the breeze.
Caught on branches, twisting free, dragging and pulling determinedly. White as light and fresh as air, nothing but nappies everywhere.
Torn and tatty, smart and new; they tugged and pulled and fought with glee, their play and pleasure, beyond all measure, their bright delight a joy to see.
Now, when rain clouds gather in the sky I look upon that inward eye that carries me to a place and time, to watch those nappies as they fly fluttering and dancing on the line.
(With apologies to to WW)
Susan Bowman is 70 years old and has enjoyed writing short stories and poetry for most of her life. She’s had a novel in her desk drawer for five years – it waits for an editor to take pity on it. She lives in the West Midlands where she has great access to theatre and cinema. Her hobbies include writing, reading, sewing and pottery. She is nanna Sue to seven little tykes who are very special to her.
Neil Elder Death in the village
Last night there was a murder in the village, Pinner Players butchered West Side Story before a paying audience. Geoff and Tina Taylor, Treasurer and Chair, are chief among the culprits, with accents east of nowhere and singing voices that the kindest critics call ‘original’.
This morning, Tina sweats through zumba for beginners, replaying last night’s triumph at a tempo hard to live with. While Geoff, at home with Google, finishes compiling questions for tonight’s Big Quiz For Cancer. Nobody works harder to raise money for the cause.
And on the wall a photograph of Geoff, with Tina holding Nicholas, who is forever in their thoughts.
Neil Elder won the Cinnamon Press debut collection prize with The Space Between Us, as well as their pamphlet prize with Codes of Conduct, which was shortlisted for a Saboteur Award. Other works include Being Present, a chapbook, and And The House Watches On. His latest work is Like This, available from 4 Word Press. He occasionally writes at https://neilelderpoetry.wordpress.com/ Twitter – @Eldersville. Instagram – neilelderpoetry.
Tessa Foley Playing Pool with Boobs
And I don’t mean potting them in one, I mean your arm won’t cross your body right,
Not when you’ve tits that impress or impact, in fact it’d be nice to have games in the pub we all can play
Games that don’t mean some of us crush our soft pieces or swing dramatic wrecking balls from ever ever decreasing tethers,
Ever dire the frame, I potted two in one, one day and he said
“For anyone else that would be good – for you, it was a fucking miracle”
Tessa Foley’s debut poetry collection Chalet Between Thick Ears and follow up What Sort of Bird are You? were published by Live Canon. She is currently working on her third collection Try to Find Me. She has been recognised in the Ware Poets Competition, Charroux Prize and Arts University Bournemouth Poetry Competition. www.TessaFoley.com @tessafoleypoet on insta, @unhelpable on Twitter, Tessa Foley Poet on Facebook.
Christopher M James The opposite of play…
is not what is serious, but what is real Freud
I often ask myself how much social media content really makes the world a better place, bringing people together for greater understanding, harmony and peace.
To find out, I went down to the pavement below my flat. As people passed I told them about my holidays showed them pictures of my tan or my feet against the pool, sipping cocktails. Then pictures of meals I’d ordered before eating them. Or raising my glass to the wide world out there. I liked their dogs, shouted out LOL when one of the municipal workers I’d distracted walked into a lamppost. I told every passing lady how fabulous she looked, sometimes adding you don’t look your age!, made noises about clothes, held up my smartphone like a roving eye when I decided to go live.
And this morning I can conclude the impact is undeniable. I switched on to discover three new, previously unknown friends: a policeman, a social worker a psychiatrist.
Christopher M James is a dual British/French national and former HR professional. Originally from South Oxfordshire, he studied English/Philosophy at university and has since spent all of his adult life abroad. Writing assiduously after retirement, his work has been published in Acumen, Aesthetica, Magma, Orbis, Ink, Sweat and Tears, Dream Catcher, London Grip, Poetry Salzburg, The French Literary Review, amongst others. He has also been widely anthologised. He won first prize in the Sentinel Literary Quarterly Competition 2020, the Maria Edgeworth Literary Award in 2019 and the Earlyworks Competition 2018, as well as being a prize winner at Yeovil, Stroud, Poets meet Politics, Wirral, Hanna Greally, Hastings, Buzzwords… He lives in the Dordogne and runs the French Online Poetry Stanza.
Ivan Sanders Gertrude’s Pay Back
By all accounts she was a remarkable woman: Widowed in her thirties after years of caring for her war-damaged husband, her face pained and bruised – not least from his violent outbursts.
Bill was buried in the village cemetery with all due ceremony, but few attended. Gertrude maintained a low profile, being rarely seen outside her home. Leastways, not during daylight hours.
However, during the early hours of darkness boy detectives ventured out to play. We were the village overseers and little escaped our notice, particularly Gertrude – a little unsteady on her feet, and heading for the cemetery.
Hidden behind a distant gravestone, we observed her, leastways as best we could. It was unclear what she was doing, but we heard her praying, and Bill’s flowers being watered.
A day or two later we checked Bill’s grave, but there were no flowers, only a grass mound displaying a large yellow stain.
Ivan: “The commended poem was based on my 1950s childhood experiences in Dale Abbey, Derbyshire. I was fortunate enough to live in White Cottage, located between an ancient church and an ancient derelict abbey. Evenings, even very cold and dark winter ones, were spent with one’s junior school pals typically in a tree house chatting and burning candles. No televisions, electronics, or even flush toilets. There was no crime and in those days child safety would not have been viewed by parents with even the slightest trepidation.
Having been blessed to receive over six hundred ‘channelled’ poems, I have come to learn and appreciate that poems have their own voice, and who held the pen to record them as they floated by is sometimes no more than semantics.”
Emma Gower Limerick – A Play on Poetry
Once a young poet did exist And she’d got her knickers in a twist. She didn’t know what to write So to put that right She sat down in a humph and wrote this.
Emma Gower is a 17 year old poet and aspiring author. She is applying to study English Literature at university, and has previously been shortlisted for the national Betjeman Poetry Prize and won an award in The Lost Words Poetry Competition. When not writing, Emma can be found dancing both in classes and her kitchen, or hanging out with her dog. She hopes you enjoy the 5 seconds it will take you to read her poem, and can’t wait to write more for you in the future!
The Waltham Forest Poetry Competition awards ceremony will be held at the Trades Hall, Walthamstow on Tuesday 5 December 7.30pm. You can reserve a space at https://WFAwards2023.eventbrite.co.uk – it’s a free event and everyone is very welcome. There’ll be a poetry open mic too if you’d like to take part or just come along to watch.
Our judge, Niall O’Sullivan, is in the middle of choosing his winners and everyone who entered should know by early next week how you got on. As well as the main prize, there’s the Local prize (for people who live, work or study in Waltham Forest) and the Funniest Poem prize.
We’re delighted that our awards ceremony will be held at Walthamstow Trades Hall on the evening of Tuesday5 December where all winners and Commended poets will be invited to read their winning poem/s and our judge, Niall O’Sullivan, will also perform. Entry will be free. More details to follow.
Get your poems ready for the Waltham Forest Poetry Competition – send up to 6 poems on the theme of ‘PLAY’ – e.g. theatre, music, games, sport, (press) play… but you can interpret it any way you want. Our judge is Niall O’Sullivan and closes MONDAY 9 OCTOBER. Entry fee is from £3 for adults and FREE for under 18s… 👇
Coming your way soon! The 2023 Waltham Forest Poetry Competition – our theme this year is PLAY and our judge will be Mr Poetry Unplugged… Niall O’Sullivan 😀😀😀
On Wednesday 7 December, we revealed the winners of this year’s Waltham Forest Poetry Competition. You can see full list of winners and their poems HERE.
Our event took place in the theatre upstairs at Ye Olde Rose and Crown Theatre Pub where the stage had been set up for their annual pantomime Little Red Riding Hood and the Three Little Pigs. O yes it was!
Our 2022 judge, Andreena Leeanne, has chosen the winners of this year’s poetry competition on the theme of Community. Paul McGrane and Barry Coidan also judged the Funniest Poem category. We received 600+ poems. Thank you to Barry Coidan for providing the prize money for the main prizes and Stow Brothers Estate Agents for sponsoring the local prizes.
Andreena Leeanne: “I was a bit reluctant to be the judge of this competition because I always encourage people to write however they like and stress that it’s not a competition on my quest to make writing more accessible. After some consideration I said yes and have really enjoyed the process. I was thrilled to see that there were over 640 submissions. It took a while for me to read all of the poems and make decisions not only because there were so many to read but because I took my time reading each one. I was inspired and impressed with the young people’s poems especially with how they embraced the theme of community. I wish them well and hope they all continue to write. Overall, this was a lovely experience. Thank you for choosing me.”
ADULT POET MAIN PRIZE – for poets from the UK and beyond
Community by Inaya Razzaq, Chingford and My Street by Dylan Ware, Walthamstow were also Commended and were chosen as first and second respectively in the Local prize.
LOCAL ADULT POETS PRIZE – for poets who live, work or study in Waltham Forest
First prize, £400: Kindness Epidemic by Peter Devonald, Stockport
Andreena: “The diamond shape of the poem caught my eye straight away. I have never seen a poem written in that way before. The symbolism of the diamond represents strength. The writer is passionate about kindness which makes the poem quite persuasive. I liked the optimism of one individual can create change in their community and the world with acts of kindness. Lovely message. Clear winner for me.”
Peter Devonald is a Manchester based poet/screenwriter. Winner of the Heart Of Heatons Poetry Competition 2021, poet in residence Haus-a-rest. His films appeared in 150+ festivals and won 50+ awards. Senior writer for Children’s Bafta nominated series and formerly senior judge/ mentor for The Peter Ustinov Awards (iemmys).
Second prize, £200: Tuned In by Peter Burns, Wimbledon
Andreena: “I liked how happy, musical and welcoming the poem sounded. I felt like I was singing along while I was reading it. I also imagined the art space they are describing. Felt genuine.”
Tuned In
“Hey man,” he asks me — “where you bin? “I bin doin jamming – at ‘Tuned In” Every face fits, every race, every skin Drop in, join in – this is Tuned-In
All kinds, all sorts – all together All chords, keys & rhythms – birds of a feather Anthony-Jon-and-Tony – and Wobble with the bass Everyone’s a winner – at Merton Arts Space
No money, no sweat, no exclusive club We’re all a part of the community hub Play along, play together, play out of your skin In tune, fine-tuned – at ‘Tuned-In’
So Roll up, Rock up – come on over and find us Make your harmony the glue that bonds and binds us Come and take it – take this splendid opportunity Come and make music – in our Arts Space Community
Local, or further afield – from any neighbourhood Any manor, any postcode – any neck of the woods We need to come collectively, we need some teamwork We need much more, than that ‘social network’
Tuned into rhythm – rhythm of life, Tuned into harmony – harmony, not strife Tuned into-friend-and-foe, sister and brother Tuned in to-ourselves, tuned in to each other
Come as you are, Come as you feel Come up folks, this is the real deal Brought here for you, by popular appeal
This is not virtual, folks, this is for real Come in; check in; look in; pop in; play a part in; join in; you-can-win; ain’t-no-sin; hook in; step in; slot in; pitch in Get tuned in; get tuned in; get tuned in; get tuned in
As a soon to retire teacher, Peter is a later-in-life poet – get writing now younger people! Poetry at 3, at the Poetry Café in Covent Garden, hosted by Paul McGrane, gave him the confidence to perform his poetry. He usually likes to write poems that make social commentary in the hope that they will resonate with audiences, either confirming their ideas, or getting them to look for different perspectives. He loves rhyme, but doesn’t always use it as he doesn’t want to be straightjacketed. Most of Peter’s poems are written to be performed, “because at open mics you usually only hear them once – I need to give the audience the main ideas in the here and now.” His influences: John Cooper Clarke; Wordsworth; and, of course, the master performers Maya Angelou & Stevie Wonder. The increase in younger poets and open mics is encouraging. He particularly likes: on YouTube ‘Unerase’ Poetry, especially Simar Singh & Priya Malik; and the modern Instagram poet Rupi Kaur.
Third prize, £100: Our Lovely Borough of Green by Kay Taylor, Walthamstow
“I loved the imagery, the rhyming and the way they highlighted the sights of the borough, much like a guided tour. I also liked the conciseness of each of the two lines.”
Our Lovely Borough of Green
Community, community, oh what does it mean? In Waltham Forest it’s something special to be seen.
It’s a sense of belonging, something in which to take pride, So once you’ve pushed all the new-builds aside,
You’ll see art on the walls and many a bee friendly street, Four legged friends and the parks where they meet,
People that smile as they go about their day, And boats on Hollow Ponds rowing away.
It’s a shared sense of purpose, a quick wave as you go, It’s the Sunday markets selling goods in Walthamstow,
You’ll find cats and cocktails in The Nag’s Head, And even the opportunity to adopt a flower bed.
All the way from lower Leyton up to Chingford’s Green, It’s home to art trails, Lethal Bizzle and E17,
From Big Penny Social to God’s Own Junk Yard, There’s no way to fit it all on one post card.
So community, community, what does it mean? Well, the meaning’s right here in our lovely borough of green.
It was whilst studying for a degree in English Language from the University of Leeds, with an additional year spent studying English Literature at the University of Western Ontario in Canada, that Kay discovered her passion for writing. Since graduating, she has spent the past seven years writing mostly in a professional setting whilst crafting content for brands such as Amazon and Twitch. However, this year, Kay began writing into her spare time, attending creative writing workshops in the hope of one day writing a book, and rhyming her words to fuel her creativity. Kay’s a firm believer that writing is good for the soul, whether it’s to immerse oneself in an activity, get one’s thoughts down on a piece of paper or simply writing a good old to-do list.
Commended, Boaters Code by Georgia Howe, Cheltenham
Boater’s Code
Always something needing mending, a list of repairs never-ending. Often running out of room, the water tank empties too soon.
But I wouldn’t change it for the world – not bricks and mortar, silver, gold. It’s not easy, have no doubt – this is what being a boater’s about!
Sometimes lonely but never alone, for if you make the canals your home you’ll be part of a strong community – the boater’s code of camaraderie.
Commended, The Shame by Graeme Darling, Carluke, South Lanarkshire, Scotland
The Shame
Is that huddled figure Dead or alive? Last night’s street temperature Was minus five. I look away and hurry by, So I won’t meet the figure’s eye. Is it a case Of there But for the grace, Go I? It’s an abdication of responsibility, A failure of sympathy, The failure of a HOLE society. For all those who allow this shame Must accept their share of the blame. They say there’s no place like home; But for some of us, no place IS home.
Graeme Darling lives in Scotland. He loves music from the 60s and 70s, especially the music and lyrics of Ray Davies and Peter Hammill.
Commended, I saw this poem in a dream and cried by Tallulah Howarth, Leeds
I SAW THIS POEM IN A DREAM AND CRIED
Tomorrow, kindness is calling So, whatever the cost Tell your lovers you love them Before they are lost
Water the wastelands To turn into green Connect with your neighbours Create your own scene
Tomorrow, kindness is calling So, play dot-to-dot With the stars in the sky From your stargazing spot
Walk a little bit slower Take time to deep-breathe Remember the best place to wear Your heart is your sleeve
Tomorrow, kindness is calling And we can’t run away In fact, I no longer want to – Let’s invite her today
Tallulah Howarth (she/they) is a 21-year-old poet, designer and self-proclaimed ‘actorvist’ based in West Yorkshire. They have previously had publications in Young Identity’s Ecosystems of Fury, HEBE and Now Then. In 2019, they were shortlisted in the top five for the BBC Young Writers’ Award, and was shortlisted to represent Manchester in the international Slam-O-Vision. She has a strong foundation in the Manchester poetry scene, and is excited to be finding her footing in the Leeds scene. Her work is observational, philosophical and politically-motivated. They are particularly passionate about foraging, archives and Polish jazz.
Commended, Come Together Gail Webb by West Bridgford, Nottinghamshire
Come Together
A found poem, words gathered from Walthamstow Forest Community Hub Facebook page.
We are hiring, befriending, delivering food and reaching out. A beautiful community with stronger futures is back.
Unlock new skills, a legacy of kindness. Purple heart, green heart. Local homes and wonderful things stay safe. This is a free event.
Zoom in pyjamas, pop on a frock, help us celebrate! Call someone, have a conversation and grow food to build up a resilience.
Empty spaces flourish, brighten someone’s day to make a difference. Face to face resumes after chaos, social action, a local food bank.
Go out to parks, find young and old, deliver Shepherd’s Pie on tearful doorsteps. Hampers boost connection at Christmas, with wellbeing walks and a million steps.
It is only cold if you stand alone.
Gail Webb has been writing poetry since 2018. Gail’s pamphlet The Thrill Of Jumping In is published by Big White Shed and explores friendship, grief and loss. She is widely published in anthologies including Poetry And Settled Status For All and the most recent Making Our World Better. In 2021 Gail won the poetry prize in Nottingham Playhouse’s Reflections competition, celebrating the anniversary of Anish Kapoor’s Mirror installation. Nottingham is alive with poetry and Gail is a member of DIY Poets, Gobs Collective and Paper Cranes Collective. Gail is originally from a mining town in South Wales but has lived in Nottingham for most of her life. Writing to the theme of community appeals to her sense of identity and search for connection.
Commended, Word by Word by Rachel Larsen-Jones, Broad Haven, Pembrokeshire, Wales
Word by Word
Are those words together humbling when they become neighbours. Do they feel united alongside their very word? For alone those words are questionable yet the potential to be bold. Lets join those meanings create those sentences as gaps between and apostrophes cherish those of belonging. A making of a speech or song creates more than just what is heard is written but together those words are warm and comforting all together, word by word.
Rachel Larsen-Jones is an aspiring poet and sound artist from Pembrokeshire. Originally an audiologist but an explorer at heart, she moved out of the soundproof booth and into field recording. Her poetry is often a blend of voicing the beauty and struggles of nature amongst the Anthropocene. She currently lives a nomadic lifestyle with her family in a self-built house on wheels.
LOCAL ADULT POETS PRIZE – for poets who live, work or study in Waltham Forest
First prize, £50 and small pamphlet publication, Over The Fence by Pari Faramarzi, Walthamstow
Andreena: “I liked how the poem felt multicultural through the sharing of food and drink.”
Pari’s poem was also Commended in the Main prize.
OVER THE FENCE
Do you have any turmeric? Or perhaps some porridge oats?
Does anyone have any ice for my rum and coke? What about a couple of beers across the garden fence?
Or a singalong at sundown, and a WhatsApp chat until bed?
Anyone for a baguette? I bought one too many My fridge is full of kindness My heart as full as my belly
Does anyone know when this will end? No. Me neither. Let’s just keep supporting each other. Let’s put rainbows in our windows. Stop for chats on the street. Let’s listen to each other’s rambles And let us pray.
Let us pray for the day this all goes away. But let’s hope that when it does. This community we have built. Will stay.
Pari first came to poetry during her performance art degree where she created an exhibition that explored the relationship between self and strangers. She has since gone in various directions with her career – starting in technology, then moving into PR & marketing and finally finding a career and way of life in yoga. Pari is now a creative freelancer and teaches yoga. Words have always been the constant and after becoming a mum, poetry has been what she’s needed to help her create, explore and become into motherhood. Pari has always dreamt of writing her own poetry book and after having a child in lockdown has written a number of poems she hopes to publish into a book called “paper planes and panic attacks” – which touches on maternal mental health, love, growth and compassion.
Second prize: Barberette, JP Seabright, Leytonstone
Andreena: “This is about finding your community and being able to express yourself in safe spaces which is really important.”
Barberette
Under the arches, down the passage way, does the road even have a name? You’re not sure. But its red door beckons you in: solid, heavy, bullet proof, like the doors of a dozen queer clubs of your youth. The back alleys, the no-name, the spyhole, the security chains. But not here, here the doors are open wide, welcoming all, regardless of gender and sexuality. It’s a small space but a safe one, and in that sense it’s a whole wide world of acceptance and respect, where you can not only be yourself, but become yourself, fashioned into the person you always imagined you were. Tailored, coiffured, looking sleek, shaved, cut, clippered and shit hot. How is something so simple as equal treatment gender neutral service so radical, so trailblazing, even in this queer community, even in London? The London that has lost all of its lesbian-only spaces, that has gone into retroheterograde through the move to so-called ‘assimilation’. An approach no more attractive to a person whose marginalisation is based on the colour of their skin, than who they choose to sleep with. I don’t want to assimilate, I want to agitate, alternate, deviate and consummate with all my queer siblings. But here at Barberette is where I bring my pink pound now. It’s the only place I feel at home, where I’m not embarrassed to ask for a short back and sides. Where queers, non-binary folx, straights and trans humans of every stripe rub shoulders and become ~ transformed into rainbow-winged butterflies dancing in the sun.
JP Seabright is a queer disabled writer living in London. They have three pamphlets published: Fragments from Before the Fall: An Anthology in Post-Anthropocene Poetry (Beir Bua Press, 2021), No Holds Barred (Lupercalia Press, 2022), and GenderFux (Nine Pens Press, 2022). MACHINATIONS, a collaborative experimental work is out winter 2022, and two further pamphlets are forthcoming in 2023. They have been nominated for both a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. More of their work can be found at https://jpseabright.com and via Twitter @errormessage
Third prize, Wild by Rainbow Wilcox, Walthamstow
Andreena: “I like the comparison of the jungles and it felt like a home from home. The poem expressed a worldwide community in a few words. We can find home in far away places and be quite happy there.”
Rainbow’s poem ‘A glow together’ was also Commended in the Local competition
Wild
Green parakeet Squawking like it’s jungle. Did no-one tell you This is London And you’re so far from home? And yet you seem happy here, Too. A jungle of a different kind – Room for everyone And wild.
Writing since young though only recently sharing her words, Rainbow moved to Walthamstow in the summer and was excited to see the poetry competition advertised at The Rose and Crown pub when collecting her weekly veg box. Working in children’s mental health and training to be a yoga teacher, she enjoys creativity and movement to explore and unfold what’s within and beyond.
Twitter: @rainbow.wilcox Instagram: @rainbowwilcox and @iris.and.ember
Commended – TWO POEMS – We are all Human and New Normal by Rachel Lyon, Walthamstow
We are all Human
We are all human We are the same With our aches and pains Our losses and gains Like the coming and going of a tide
The shadows that whisper into our ears Taking us down the wrong paths and alley ways The longing, the hope, the lost and the fooled The brave and in pain We are all human
Moving in the grinding wheels of time We don’t share the scars But bare them quietly
Each happy, Each sad Each wave a little white flag In surrender That We are all just human Living our lives
Moving in these grinding wheels of time We don’t share the scars But feel them quietly
New normal
New normal Not another tie to ways that bind and break my kind
Not more boxes and lies that define Tear down walls and masks that hide your beauty that needs to shine
We are a rainbow tribe On an earth that birthed us To be as free as the trees and birds
We are unzipping form Breaking out of prisons Freedom is a state of mind Let’s start again And dismantle the normal
Rachel lives in Walthamstow with artist/partner, Will Bracegirdle. She writes around the themes of nature, spirituality, and reflections on life. Poetry captures her feelings on life and helps make sense of the chaotic. Rachel loves collaborating creatively with Will who creates acrylics around her poems and vice versa. Rachel enjoys reading poetry at Poems Not Bombs (Rose and Crown pub) and local exhibits that supports the local community (@shespeaksupE17 and Wynwood art district). She is currently writing a new collection called Thoughts on Autism.
Instagram: Raisethe_standard
Commended, Soon we’ll have no trees in Waltham Forest by Stephen Harvie, Leyton
Soon, we’ll have no trees in Waltham Forest
Developers have identified opportunities To benefit the Community in Waltham Forest. Substantial shareholder dividends Will be increased by the relocation Of an avenue of trees Whose cool shade and resident wildlife Are not cost effective And impede the construction Of a concrete tower block Which local residents don’t want.
The Community has previously benefitted By the demolition of Wood Street Library And the luxury flats which replaced it.
The Community will soon benefit From the clearance by Developers Of Orient Way Pocket Park And even more luxury flats Which local residents cannot afford.
Soon, we’ll have no trees in Waltham Forest.
Stephen Harvie is cat aficionado with a passion for literature, Lesney Matchbox cars, and men in rubber. He is originally from Scotland but has lived in London for over twenty years. He actively campaigns on Human Rights, Animal Welfare, and LGBT+ causes. He is currently studying for an MA in English Literature at Queen Mary University of London. www.facebook.com/stephen.harvie.522
Commended, Planting the seeds by Said Fararhi, Walthamstow
Planting the seeds!
Be happy! You’ve got a roof over your head Mummy says it’s time to go to bed Respect the neighbours Don’t jump on your bed
It’s a sunny Saturday morning No cars parked on the street No need to speed Looking from the window Active neighbours woke up from their sleep Youngsters and adults rolled up their sleeves They have a mission to complete It’s time to clean every inch of the street
My neighbours are my power station All year round can generate a stream of motivation Looking out the window I felt no hesitation I grabbed my tools Off I go and join the celebration
Mums and Dads teaching us the planting of seeds Our street is a human creation There are displays of humble creative work of art That could speed straight into your heart
In our vicinity you can feel thoughts of creativity In the park parents and kids express priceless felicity You wouldn’t feel you are lonely in times of adversity As people typically strive to breed a sense of solidarity Which symbolizes a strong bonding community Mums, and Dads have been planting the seeds, So, we can harvest the best.
Said Fararhi emigrated to England in 1989 from Morocco. He is currently working as an ESOL Teacher for a college in London.
Commended, A glow together by Rainbow Wilcox, Walthamstow
Rainbow also won third prize in the local competition for ‘Wild’.
To glow together
Somewhere between Here and there Are magic things Those liminal spaces Where streams converge To dance together To sing Where hearts in beat Remember each other As candles flickering Or stars twinkling They speak: “I see your bright You remind me my shine Let’s ember a little Let’s swirl Paint fields with Currents of light”
(The trees agreed Then swayed their leaves With ancient delight)
And in the morning A dream to carry Of not so far away things Close now Glowing in sight
Commended, Toxic Times by Barbara Campbell, Higham Hill
Toxic Times
We live in toxic times Crushed by those in powerful places No respect for our community Our planet full of plastic waste Everywhere, birds and fishes can’t get away Stuck in the gut, struggle to breathe Choked to death Is this how we’re supposed to survive
Plastic waste shipped around the world Destined for the economically poor Scraping out a living on waste matters Women and children, Sifting through the mounts, knee deep Filling their bags with Disease ridden, piled high waste Man, and beast Compete for a different feast
Barbara Campbell loves reading and has been writing poetry for many years. She has written poems on random pieces of paper and in notebooks and thought no more about them. She would surprise herself when she read them: ‘Did I write that!’ She joined a creative writing and poetry workshop and developed her craft. She has taken a step forward to call herself a poet when she produced her first poetry pamphlet. Her collection of poetry is based on observation of her community and flavoured with Caribbean experiences, sometimes with a sprinkling of Patwa dialect. During lockdown she wrote inspirational poems and posted it on her Facebook page and got great comments. She recently entered two poems in a competition in the Black in White Community Collection Volume 2, both were highly commended out of 86 entrants. The poems are published in the volume. Twitter: @BICpoet55
YOUNG POET MAIN PRIZE – for poets from the UK and beyond
First prize, £50: Building Blocks by Sharon Hood, Waltham Cross
Andreena: “The young person has great insight and is very observant. Finding solace in community but also where community is home. The poem tells a story. I liked how they used the imagery of the house to describe what’s happening inside of the house.”
building blocks
She passed you the bricks You lifted them with hesitation. She poured until she was empty She was blind to your orchestration
You stumbled in the cement You faltered at the foundations She built you up relentlessly She gave you credit for her creations
She tiled and slated the roof while You slammed the door on her friends She painted the walls in colour, yet You saw it through a monochrome lens.
Now, she kicks at the obstinate walls You made sure they wouldn’t break She curated this house for both of you – She realises the choice ought to make:
Leaving the bittersweet ruins of a dream, She recalls a place she has always known. She finds solace in her community; Without you, she can return back home.
Sharon Hood is currently a student. She is Black British and advocates in her local community for more diversity in the education system, as well as being involved in her church community. She has been writing poetry since her childhood, inspired by convolutions such as identity and relations.
Second prize, £30, Community by Maleeha Sadiq, Chingford
Andreena: “The poem showed the wholesomeness of community without exclusion. No matter who you are you are welcome and sky is the limit when we get community right, so much can be achieved.”
Community
It’s not a community, It’s family, We are one team, You and me, Jenny next door, Jonny furthermore, We are in this together, Well…it’s for the better.
We are the same, No matter your name, We never shame, Cuz that’s just lame.
We are a community, Always in unity, We do things as one, Like a home run, Together we shine, In a line Together we fly, And touch the sky.
My name is Maleeha, my nickname is Millie. I am 9 years old and attend Longshaw Primary Academy. I live in Chingford, East London, with my mum, dad, older brother and older sister. My favourite subject in school is Maths. I have always had a keen interest in writing poems. Poems are different because they give me the opportunity to write about how I feel in a different way. Living in a multi-culture society inspired me to write this poem because we are all from different cultures and backgrounds but, we are still one.
Third prize, Set Me Free by Luca McNicol Williams, Walthamstow
Andreena: “The poem is really hopeful and I liked the concept that community can be found in self-love, identity and being yourself. The poem oozed maturity.”
Luca’s poem ‘Community’ was third, and ‘Room for All’ was Commended, in the Local Young Poets prize.
Set Me Free
A flame amongst burnt wood. A light at the end of the tunnel. A star in a black night sky. What is a community to you? It can be endless things A sense of comfort Never felt before. Found family – community Self love – community Identity – community Lost souls, searching for one of them. Thoughts and confusion Strung into a web Elongated spiders crawl and scatter Wrapped in a cocoon of spindly string Community sets me free Let’s us breath Feel Laugh Cry And love.
My name is Luca. I like playing my guitar, riding my bike and listening to music – but not at the same time. I also enjoy writing short poems, as I think its a good way for young people to express themselves. Since around a year ago, I found that one of my favourite ways to get creative was to write about matters that are important to me, such a climate change, sexism, homophobia etc. I love sharing my poems with my mum, as she herself is also very creative. My dad, on the other hand, enjoys looking at old confusing cars and watching top gear. I am 14, and at around this time last year, i entered this very same competition. I wrote my poem handed it in and didn’t think much of it. However, not much longer my parents called me downstairs, and we danced around after receiving the email that I had come first place! And now, such a long time later, I am so pleased to be back again.
Commended, Community Cravings by Amy Shin, Aberdeen
Community Cravings
I want to ask you this when the sun is setting dusk dripping red, cradled in a silent room. Where does Home lie? I’ve looked east, north, west, south of all corners in my heart. The doctors are telling me that they cannot cure diseases of the soul.
I’m saying it’s like this. Imagine words dropping from your mouth like heavy poetry, native tongue. Ballerinas stretching limbs to pirouette but falling from Grace. When you eat soured kimchi out of a tin, too bitter to taste anything like home. More than two shades away from Home.
We live in places that cannot fit all our seams that are full to bursting. Doctors tell me they cannot cure bones that ache from growing pains in new nations. They cannot touch my tender, placid heart scraped raw from cultural administrations. I find myself thinking of puzzles slotting into bigger pictures.
If I was a puzzle, and you were the board, the picture is lost on us both.
Homesickness radiates from my temple, reaching some disastrous tempo in the mind. When you see my swollen feet, my swollen fists shaped like a stolen heart: all they can think of thievery. I’m a thief. Or perhaps I am the stolen item, gold in a sea of silver. Maybe we are fish in a stream, beating past the currents, united in our single struggle to reach familiar waters. One cannot tame where the heart
belongs, says my Grandmother. War cannot tame people. People are left untamed by the War.
I want to ask you for something bigger than myself. People and hearts beating stronger and not smaller, so I try not to clench my fists too tight. I am reminded again: Doctors cannot fix cravings for communities.
Amy Shin is currently a 17 year old aspiring poet and writer who lives in Scotland. When she’s not binge reading terrible romance novels, you can often find her writing poetry or watching TV shows. Her favourite film is Howl’s moving castle and when she finds herself with writers block, she always re-watches it.
Commended, Anti-Social Media by Lydia Mapledoram, Oxford
Anti-Social Media
Tempting screen, what does it mean? The hours lost trying to be seen, Curating an image like an artist’s work, This is our community learning how to twerk.
With the stage of my phone, I try to hide but I feel alone. Friends aren’t there, we’re drifting apart. This is our community clicking the little heart.
False and fake- a slimy snake, the interactions fading. I scramble for it when I awake, all the while I’m ageing. Losing a part of my youth as easily as a dime, This is our community access anytime.
Our theatre is the internet. It gets to us everywhere. We demand more rules and regs but they just don’t care: “Have a digital detox, that’ll sort you out,” This is our community always trying to pout.
The clock has said it’s time for bed, But I turn it off and tears are shed. Time is gone but I’ve gained nothing. This is our community. We are all bluffing.
Lydia Mapledoram is a Sixth Form student studying Maths, Chemistry, Physics and Further Maths in Oxford. Her love of writing and poetry stemmed from a willingness to make sense of the world and, at times, escape it. She is thrilled to be commended for her poem “Anti-Social Media” as this is her first time entering a competition.
Commended, Our Communities by Codie Ndoni, Bishops Stortford
Our Communities
Everyone has a community No matter who they are Everyone has a place to belong Whatever the person, Whether they live near or far.
Communities should have a nice atmosphere People should feel welcome Nobody should be cruel to anyone Whoever the person They should be having fun
I am in a community Where I’m treated very well Whoever I may be People pick me up when I fell.
Whoever the person Wherever they come from They should all be accepted in a community Because everyone should belong.
Commended, Poem 2 by Alex Mavrou-Stone, Clapton, London
Poem 2
People of Hackney Listen clearly; Cricket in the marshes Though people are starving We can’t have that.
People of Leyton Do Not Debate! Keep our parks open We gotta inflate! That’s what we need.
Do you get our reason? In our small home region?
People of Newham (And all the students) We gotta huge problem With our tax! We gotta share it To the max! All of London, in fact.
People of London Do you get our reason? Now is our season.
Alex Mavrou-Stone is 8 ¾. Gender: Male. Likes: Pineapples, cricket, maths, music, cats and trains. Dislikes: Yoghurt, English, Geography, McDonalds and adverts. Personal Life: I have a really short mum. Height: 4 feet 10.
LOCAL YOUNG POETS PRIZE – for poets who live or study in Waltham Forest
First prize, £50, Community by Inaya Razzaq, Chingford
Andreena: “It’s a poignant reminder of how strong community can be in these challenging times.”
Inaya’s poem was also Commended in the Main prize.
Community
Many have said a good community Blesses you with strong immunity They have the power to choose how you grow And make you feel at home! But, sadly when one parts ways… We tend to forget those happy days At the end of the day, Those memories sway, In our head, Even when we go to bed. But, a comforting hug, Can make even the slightest bug disappear, and cower in fear, So fight the pain and remember at the end of the day YOU ALWAYS GAIN
My name is Inaya, my nickname is Ni or Ni-Ni, which my friends call me. I am 10, almost 11 and attend Longshaw Primary Academy. I live in Chingford with my mum and dad. My favourite subjects in school are English and Art. In my spare time I like to draw, play video games, create arts and crafts, read and write short stories. I saw the competition and really wanted to apply my English knowledge. I felt inspired by the theme of ‘community’ and applied the teachings instilled in me, about that topic, by mum and dad.
Second prize, £30, My Street by Dylan Ware, Walthamstow
Andreena: “I like the observant nature and the description of the street.”
Dylan’s poem was also Commended in the main prize.
My street
On my street kids play football, They all let out a big call, The ball gets kicked into the air about a hundred feet tall, Landing all the way into the shopping mall,
On my street old ladies chat, Always complaining about their back, Talking about the sleep they lack, Doing it all until the sky turns black,
On my street gardeners plant trees, All for the insects and bugs and the bees, In Spring they grow lots of leaves, In Autumn they sway in the breeze,
On my street joggers do their weekly run, Then stop of at a bakesale for a quick bun, From the smiling look on their faces they’re having fun, But I always wonder why they’re going out in the scorching hot sun,
On my street kids kick a ball up and down, Old ladies chat in their dressing gown, Trees get planted by the gardeners of the town, Joggers sprint as if they are going to win a golden crown.
Third prize, £10, Community by Luca McNicol Williams, Walthamstow
Andreena: “I liked how the poem took us on a journey of a day in the life in a descriptive way. I imagined myself travelling through the poem as I read it.”
Luca was also third in the Main prize and Commended in the Local prize.
Community
Shoes tied Jacket on Mask pinched over rosy morning cheeks Frost and sunlight merged to create a cacophony of feeling Auburn leaves shatter and crumble under heavy London feet I make my way to my community As the towns got busier and the clouds grow grey and melancholy, The faces of the people become mirrored in the puddles on the ground. I trudge on Music blasting in my frozen ears Smoke like steam escaped with every jarred breath I take Busses red as roses Cars as blue as the deep sea I make my descent into Walthamstow market Voices shout from every corner Food from all cultures make faces light with joy Even though these people differ In shape, colour, height, history, identity and thought. We all share This community.
Commended, A day’s work by Frankie Goldhill, Walthamstow
A day’s work
As you walk along the street, Lots of people you might meet, A cat, A dog, A neighbour, Or a friend, Just around the corner bend.
At the park you laugh and play, In the sunshine of the day, There you find lots of friends, Old, New, Relatives too.
In the shop, There you pop, Just to get some dinner, But then your mom meets a friend, Meaning this trip is never gonna end.
At pri- I meant school, Eating your food in the lunch hall, Your teacher then sits next to you, Be careful not to spit and chew.
At your friend’s house, There you’ll sleep, But it’s so loud, You try to count sheep, It doesn’t work, So you shout, “What’s this noise all about!”
At swimming, You play volleyball, And accidently hit a kid, They ask to play, So you say, “sure but there are rules you must obey.”
At a red light, You look out the car, And from afar, You see a stranger looking in, Both people smile, as the lights turn green. While the car speeds away, Like it doesn’t want to be seen.
It’s now night, And Mr Moon is out, But no need to strop, worry or pout, Tomorrow is a brand-new day, But for right now you need to rest and lay.
Frankie is eleven years old and attends Longshaw Primary Academy in Chingford. Frankie loves school and learning. As such, she is an avid reader and is equally as keen at writing. Her creativity, imagination and writing skill shines through all her compositions, regardless of text type or genre. As a skilled writer, Frankie is proficient in entertaining, intriguing, shocking and evoking many emotions in her audience. Frankie writes for pleasure and entered this competition of her own volition. The theme for her poem was inspired by her previous additional school homework, writing a poem about community. Her family, friends and the whole school community are all very proud of what she has achieved – a very well-deserved commendation.
Commended, Mortality in eternity by Roviha Ishal, Walthamstow
Mortality in eternity
The gradual formation of trust, Oblivious to the end drawing near, But all that shines must rust, As all who live must lose something dear,
Prey to the sins we preach, As we watch the lights dwindle, Hopeless as the glimmer escapes our reach, Lost without the fires we kindle,
Every fear has its remedy, Until it comes true, Every event written in your destiny, Will come and find you,
It is enough to honour the shadows, Of what could be, Lost in mazes and meadows, As a natural community.
Roviha Ishal is in year 10. Pleased to be here.
Commended, Room for all by Luca McNicol Williams, Walthamstow
Luca was also third in the Main prize and third in the Local prize.
Room for All
Big groups, small groups Old groups, young groups Groups that you don’t understand Yet together is a community. Groups that have a common interest Groups brought together by chance. Yet these still. Are communities Poor communities. Disadvantaged communities. Communities that cry for help. If these are all still communities Why do we let them cry? The feeling of a community Is one of the best to be felt To be seen To be heard Searching for a community I guarantee there’s one for you.
Commended, No outsiders by Marcia Jackson, Walthamstow
No Outsiders
You may use a wheelchair You may have autism You may have down syndrome But you are our friend – no matter what You may have dyslexia You may have anxiety You may have social troubles But you are our friend – no matter what Because we are the big round world And no outsiders is our rule So respect and love Because we are us and you are you.
Marcia is 10 years old and lives in Walthamstow. She loves to read Malory Tower books mainly the funny and dramatic ones. Marcia has a cat called Coco who likes to jump and sit on the top of her bedroom door. Marcia has a great love of laughing, playing with her friends in the playground and swimming or riding her bike to school.
Funniest Poem Category, judged by Barry Coidan and Paul McGrane
First Prize, £100, The Choir by Nairn Kennedy, Leeds
The Choir
Mrs Johnson, breathless from the strawberry jam shoot-outs at the WI, is now a Hebrew slave, singing far too cheerfully in her pink dress with sky-blue cornflowers,
ignoring Miss Clark, who works at Aldi, whose wobbly soprano throws the alto section off the beat, who surely clothes herself from Oxfam, whose stubby hands won first prize for marrow chutney.
She tunes her ear instead to Mrs Crichton, coveting her fruity contralto, her understated diamond pendant, the melting fluffiness of her Genoese sponges, her husband.
Next week, they’ll line up for Elijah, stretch throats like starving werewolves, bay incantations, howl to summon Baal to suburbia.
Nairn Kennedy is a Leeds-based poet whose work has appeared in, amongst others, Orbis, InkSweat & Tears, The London Magazine, Stand, The North and Under the Radar. He’s been a prizewinner in the Ilkley Competition, longlisted in the National, and highly commended in the Bridport. When he’s not poeticising, he likes to develop software, and sometimes to walk around parts of Yorkshire, soaking up the scenery. Twitter: @Nairn Kennedy
Commended, Seven squabbling Swansea seagulls by Barry Childs, France
Seven squabbling Swansea seagulls Were squabbling the day away They squabbled over everything From chips to China clay
They squabbled every morning And into the afternoons They squabbled on the beach And they squabbled on the dunes
One day a seagull asked Why do we squabble all day? The other six had no reply And continued squabbling away
Barry Childs is 74 years old. He has been battling cancer for the past three years. He has been a life-long supporter of poetry and rhyme and has always enjoyed reading and writing poems. His poems have been published in magazines, journals, and anthologies worldwide. They have also been aired on various radio stations in the USA and Britain. ‘The Devil Is Coming to Tea’ was longlisted for the Yeovil International Literary Prize in 2020. ‘Grandma’s Dead’ was shortlisted for the Yeovil International Literary Prize in 2021. ‘Marrakech’ was longlisted and commended for the Yeovil International Literary Prize in 2021. He lives in France.
Commended, Space Probe by Keith Massey, Chichester
SPACE PROBE
Is there intelligent life on Venus? Have curious observers there seen us? So part of Voyager 2’s space mission was to elicit some recognition. Scientists rocketed what they thought worth extolling the culture of planet Earth. The Bible, Shakespeare, Mozart, Stravinsky; paintings by Constable and Kandinsky. America’s dream would be understood by Chuck Berry singing ‘Johnny B. Goode’. At last radio waves reached the station; leaders gathered in anticipation. Whoever they are, they do seem merry; the message just read “Send more Chuck Berry”.
Keith is a retired teacher, living in Chichester, making regular pilgrimages to Larkin’s ‘Arundel Tomb’ in the cathedral. There’s plenty of poetry going on and Keith is fortunate in belonging to a thriving and supportive Stanza group. He’s been writing poems for as long as he can remember, though this does tend to be sporadic; there have been some rather barren stretches. Frost and Hardy were seminal influences; contemporary poets he finds inspiring include Lavinia Greenlaw, Penelope Shuttle and Christopher Reid. He’s especially interested in ekphrastic poetry and currently writing a series of poems responding to Turner’s paintings and drawings.
Commended – TWO POEMS – Frognal and Aksking Mr Bings by Lidl Lebowski, Walthamstow
Frognal
Where the fuck is Frognal? I see the name each day But only on a nameplate, as my train passes that way I’ve never met a soul from there, or alighted at that station I know it’s somewhere near Finchley Road, but that’s my only information
One day before I die, perhaps, I’ll explore this tantaliser But for now I like to imagine it – I think that’s somewhat wiser For reality can never match the images in my head The village green, the babbling brook, the scent of new-baked bread
There are gates of gold and ermine, and paths of emerald green The people are friendly, smiling too; the windows all agleam An omnibus passes, the driver waves, ducks quack, and children laugh A silent night, with stars aplenty, Burl Ives’s voice from a phonograph
Laughter and cheers from the Frognal Arms, as I pass by the oakwood door Old Charlie just scored a bullseye, so Tom buys a round once more The vicar is wearing his football scarf, the willow bends low to the grass Men and women in flannels play cricket. Nothing bad ever comes to pass
But where the fuck is Frognal? I see the name each day It’s in my thoughts, my idle dreams, a game I like to play…
I’ll never go to Frognal – No. My illusions there would shatter For daydreams set the world aright And such illusions matter.
Aksking Mr Bings
The wurld is full of sceary things. I have a bear call Mr Bings. To him I tell my deepist feers Whisperd in his furrry ears
Like what whill happen wen I’m groan An hav no planet for my home Or how will energey be made It can’t, like Mr Insteien said.
Like what long sintons I don’t know Covid I cought not long ago Cus air bore venty lashen Was’n there in mitty gashun
But Borris siad oh never mind The childs are safe and we are kind To get them gone to skhool again In case they miss and have no brain
Boris thiks he funny man But mummy sad he klilled my nan My dad seys heis verry bad And me and Mr Bings are sad
And when my dad got dondersee We have to go to charatey And food was odl and dady aksed A man to wood he pleas were maksk
The man was mad and hit my dad And me and Mr Bings were sad And mummy siad i blame the guvmint For somthin liek a band in mint
Like when the aminals an plants Are dead like david apprur said And I cant breve and all the ice Is made to water wont be nice
I liek my bear call Mr Bings And aksk him why thes tebbil things But he jus frouns the way he doz And looks and sais – its jus becawss.
Lidl Lebowski writes some prose and some poetry. He describes the latter: “Mostly of the “deedlede-dee” variety, relying heavily on rhyme and rhythm, as opposed to imagery, which I’m pretty crap at, being lazy with a short attention span. Still – maybe some of it is entertaining or something, maybe engaging, maybe a bit deeper. So that’s ok.
Commended, The Poo Bag Tree by Liz Verlander, Worthing
The Poo Bag Tree
There is never a sight so strange to see As the fruit laden, bowing, poo bag tree.
When its spring and the weather clement a poo bag tree blossoms in excrement. The black plastic fruit will not need flagging You’ll know its fragrance when you start gagging.
In winter a strong determined breeze Will bow and shake a poo bag tree and quietly a bag might drop in the mud with a gentle plop.
Poo bag trees aren’t to everyone’s taste. It’s odd to have bushes littered with waste. But please don’t bother to complain Frankly, it’ll be in vain.
There is no point- your case will shatter. They’ll tell you it’s a faecal matter.
Many of Liz’s poems have been inspired by her career. She began in mental health and learning disabilities nursing, then worked in a refuge with victims of domestic violence. She is now deputy manager of a homelessness hostel. She’s had success in the Indie press including Pulsar, Penpusher, HQ, Reach, Shot Glass Journal and most recently Literary Mama. She’s also been published in Doing December Differently, Wild Goose 2006. She’s had a poem on local radio and on the Greenham Women Everywhere website. She’s performed in recent years and supported Alan Davies and Jenny Éclair at her local theatre as part of an initiative to promote local acts. Liz was shortlisted in the Isobel Hospice National poetry competition in December 2019 and was 3rd in the 2005 National Poetry Fair trade competition winning about her weight in chocolate! This was judged by Adrian Mitchell. Liz lives in in Worthing with her husband and dog. facebook.com/LizVerlanderPoet
Commended, Doggies in Heaven by Jessica Wasiolek, Molehill Green, Essex
Doggies in Heaven
All doggies go to heaven (or so I’ve been told!) They run and play along the streets of gold. Why is heaven such a doggie-delight? Why, because there is no cat in sight.
Our 2022 flier is designed by the wonderful Andrew Turner.
The Waltham Forest Poetry Competition 