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Poetry Competition – Nov. 2012

Poetry Competition - November 2012

Here are the results for my November 2012 Poetry Competition.

As before, there were a wide range of styles and subjects.

First place goes to Dominic James with his wonderfully descriptive poem, The Glass Forest.

Second is Joanne Feltham‘s poem Christmas was

Next 3

3rd : Rage over a lost earring that had been given to her by the man in her life. David Crann
4th : Flight of Swallows. Jennifer Treanor
5th : Sausage in Batter. Darren Brown

Shortlisted - not in any particular order

My Town -: K S Dearsley
Miss Glasow : Stuart Bogan
Temple: Amanda Clothier
Betina Kerstin Lundholt: Noise From a Living World
Zhana Hanizan: Rainbow
Steve Biddle: The Penguin Poem
Wayne Gatfield: The Poet
Andy Fawthrop: Hadrian’s Wall
Chris Croft: The Seige
Jude Neale: Still Life
KS Dearsley: The Accused’s Wife
Grace Oliver: My Namib Memory Box
Libby Conway Harlow: Words in a Whisper
Sylvia Goodman: Too Much Love
Maya Burney: The Language of their eyes
Sarah Grant: Trees

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The Glass Forest – Dominic James

Warm air flew up from Florida
and met an Arctic sky visiting
from Canada – so touched with lightning-frost
the rain fall on New England

that froze wherever it lay, icing up
the roads and forest. A layer of ice, a glaze.
The radio reported branches
thick with glass, sagging badly,

then in the night came splintering,
explosions through the forest clad
in killer ice. The trees, too tightly
jacketed, they made such sounds

that from the white world of the plain
we wondered at the burning chain
and grinding buzz-saw apparition
of iron jaws, heavenly flame

on ice and lumber: the drills and geysers,
fits of ice which would claim
our full attention but for the winter night:
in the darkness we were blind

to the violence that was visited
and in the morning we saw whiteness, wreck,
riven Oak and Maple, the slender Aspen
pulled to its jagged knees.

The broken forest, in submission,
will revive in early Spring, home
to creeping, feeding creatures,
shelter for its ticks and birds.

The freckled bough and cracked trunk
will repair in warmth and calm,
and frond will reach for frond again
climb back to light, survive:

but in that night – for a moment –
when tree acclimatized to tree, the forest
found itself in glass encased,
branch linked with branch to infinity.

 

Christmas was – Joanne Feltham

 

to hear you sleep,
to creep
through the dark not breathing,
to sneak packed stocking
onto your bed.

Christmas was
eager fingers, paper rip,
air rush rockets –
missiles of surprise,
starlight ignited
in amber eyes.

Christmas was
to wrap my arms around you,
to care, to fall into share,
to feel you there,

Then your last breaths sigh
and Christmas was