Year 2007/08, Pulsar Poetry Competition Winning Poems
Pulsar Poetry Competition Results
Thank you for participating in the year 2007/2008 Pulsar Poetry Competition, (the competition closed on 30th April 2008). This probably has been the most difficult competition I've had to judge to-date, poets have obviously studied Pulsar and are hitting the nail right on the head regarding preferred poems and editorial style. I agonised over the poems but appreciate that everyone has a different point of view, what I like others may not - it was ever thus. Once again, your kind support is appreciated. By entering the competition you have helped to keep the Pulsar press turning. David Pike.
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Winning Poems are:
First Prize: £125
English Riviera by
Michael Newman of Bishops Cleeve, Cheltenham
Photograph above - Michael Newman
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Second Prize: £75
Bones by
Andrew Frolish of Layham, Suffolk
Photograph above, Andrew Frolish
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Third Prize: £50
Breaking Point by
Maureen Anne Browne of Newtownards, Co. Down, Northern Ireland
Photo to follow
Photograph above - Maureen Anne Browne, click on image to enlarge.
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Recommended Poems, in no particular order:
Masinko by
Chris Hardy of London
Photograph above - Chris Hardy
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I don't know why . . . by
Steve Breese of Kelsall, Cheshire
Photo to follow
The winning poems, and two recommended poems will be published in the September 2008 edition of Pulsar Poetry Magazine – free copies to all poets published within. Winning and runner-up poets have also been notified individually.
Winning / recommended poems may be viewed below:
Once again, many thanks for making this competition a buzz. It was a pleasure to view your poems. Best wishes.
David Pike, (Judge), Editor, Pulsar Poetry Magazine.
Pulsar Poetry Competition – Year 2007/2008 Winning Poem
(All poems are centred to avoid presentation anomalies)
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English Riviera
South. To the south
Always the south.
Lanes lead from English Easter
Towards a Mediterranean Mystery,
Indigenous trees give way to exotics,
While the sun draws caravans
Across the Steppes of Central Cornwall.
I watch as boats
Take on outboard motors;
Oilskin-clad, children work up
A modern shanty; Far Harbour,
Parents mutter below-decibel.
The bay growls with two-stroke tuning.
Beach talk. Tide turn. Tide Town.
Wagtails amaze, picking away
At wet sand,
Their low loping flight characteristic.
But the smew that bobs on waves
Could be rubber duck,
Up and down a turbulent bath.
Far-out, ocean liners balance
On the earth’s rim,
Defy identification.
I attempt to focus binoculars,
Name my own inadequacy.
A dozen turnstones fly in,
Stand sentinel over shingle,
And work their patch.
I stealth a presence
Across the rocks, but am seen.
A dozen turnstones fly off,
Leaving emptiness.
Now the boats return from day-long Odyssey,
And the faithful tractor waits.
Michael Newman
Bishops Cleeve, Cheltenham
Pulsar Poetry Competition, Year 2007/2008 – Second Prize
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Bones
We return to the clearing night after night
expecting to see that white glow
peel itself off the moon again:
the owl swooping between spiny trees
and the slick currents of polluted clouds.
At night, when we stoop silently
under low boughs and heavy skies,
the earth comes alive with crackling
and the scratching of prey finding cover,
shivering through pauses in the hunting.
On the third night, we find the owl’s perch,
a tree stump, rotting in its coat of fungus.
Pellets litter the dirt below: little furry sacks
of indigestible waste, the undesirable
aspects of the lives consumed the previous night.
Poking through the compressed fur,
delicate bones, like wooden splinters,
snag the earth. Imagine the retching,
the coughing, the mouthful of unwanted
bitterness spat in a fury in the clearing each night.
Stumbling our way home down unlit paths
where the fingernails of nightened trees
scrape the flesh from our cheeks,
I look at you as the moon slips from your face
and I feel the bones catching in my throat.
Andrew Frolish
Layham, Suffolk
Pulsar Poetry Competition, Year 2007/2008 – Third Prize
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Breaking Point
His tendency to complain
Remained after he’d gone to work:
A shadow, hovering
As she tackled a mountain of ironing
And headed towards dusk.
From where she stood
She could see Benevenagh
Drowning in mist
And felt,
Her sense of self drowning with it.
She reached for the last shirt:
Meticulously ironing
Around buttons
The colour of pearl barley,
Collar, pockets, pleats, placket, cuffs.
She wished she’d done his first –
He was fussy about his shirts.
She hurriedly put the ironing-board back.
Left nothing to chance:
Gave the mirror a quick look,
For reassurance:
Her lipstick was fine.
Used to concealing things
She deleted the dark bits under her eyes,
Downed a glass of wine,
Then – scrutinised:
All those things that shouldn’t be there
She removed,
For the last time.
She felt him closing in,
Just like the night,
Heard the crunch of rubber on stones
And knew
Something, definitely, wouldn’t be right.
Maureen Anne Browne
Newtownards, Co. Down, Northern Ireland
Pulsar Poetry Competition – Recommended Poem
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Masinko
When she says this city
is cold and sad
I know she makes it so
wishing she was back
in the city
without shops or money
hawks at the window
where she’s from.
They play a violin
with one horsehair string
sing to you your own song
of welcome and faith
nothing else but the song
is always new
made by two musicians
one plays, makes the words
both make the tune
until they stop, take a coin
and go, with a staff
across their shoulders
to loop and rest the arms
walking home uphill
in the dark finding the way
like swallows.
At night
the cold black sky
flows in the unlit streets
like glass, you see
between the stars
where God might be
if you choose to look
and silence offers all
you’ll ever need or get,
dawn, the singing
of the fire, birds,
feet at the door.
Chris Hardy
London
(Masinko – Ethiopian violin)
Pulsar Poetry Competition – Recommended Poem
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I don’t know why . . .
There on the restaurant table beside me
A recently cleaned table
A discarded empty ketchup sachet
I don’t know why this is worth mentioning
It just feels important to me
My wife sits opposite
Both of us are coming to terms with the difficult news we’ve just heard
Words are non-existent when hope is asked for.
I look around the restaurant
In hope of some respite
Egged on by his friends
A man goes to the counter for a second helping of caramel apple pie.
He returns to his seat and consumes it as though the world is ending
A child repeatedly bangs a can of lilt loudly on the table
His parents ignore this, immune to the crescendo
Looking further I see a woman’s face
Skin a deathly white
A small clump of hair on the rear of her scalp is all that’s left
The cancer is beating her.
She looks straight back at me,
Her eyes a brilliant blue and within them courage and fear.
Hope is still there.
She smiles
I try to smile back but I am embarrassed of my staring.
A there on the restaurant table beside me
A recently cleaned table
A discarded empty ketchup sachet
I don’t know why this is worth mentioning
It just feels important to me.
Steve Breese
Kelsall, Cheshire
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