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FOREWORD 2012 will mark the tenth anniversary of the Teaching English magazine, Write a Poem competition. To mark this anniversary we are publishing this special issue of the magazine featuring the work of all the prize winners since the inception of the competition. All of the poets featured display an admirable feeling for, and sensitivity to, language. Some of the poems are the work of writers-in-the-making; others are the work of already accomplished and mature writers. The anthology is intended to celebrate both the promise and the achievement of our young poets. The competition was the brainchild of Alec MacAlister and was supported by the members of the English Support Service. Few of the young writers represented here would have featured were it not for the support and encouragement of a teacher of English, the unsung heroes of the education system. Esther Herlihy has administered the competition with artful efficiency. Joseph Woods of Poetry Ireland has been a staunch supporter. To all of them, and to young writers, I offer my sincerest thanks. Kevin Mc Dermott
David and Goliath c.1605-1607, Orazio Gentileschi, from the National Gallery of Ireland
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Teaching English Magazine POETRY WINNERS 2011 SENIOR WINNERS
2nd Place
1st Place Rikuzentakata Little Ayako sits in class. It is break time. She is making paper cranes. She handles the coloured folds like an expert craftsman. The paper seems to dance in her hands. Her classmates are impressed. No one can make a paper crane like Ayako. Subarashii! Sugoi! Their praise floats on Ayako s ears. She imagines they are praising her grandmother. Her mentor. The weight of two years worth of missing her Sits heavily in her childish heart. But making paper cranes lightens the load.
Suburban Nighttimes This is where Night is never night But a shade of sodium lamp. Where your earth shattering decisions Tear down mountains But leave their shadows Burnt onto the sky Like they were never gone.
Now there is a monstrous grey whale. It comes to visit, uninvited. And devours everything. Then spits out what s left. Leaving everything shock-coloured. A man in a weary jumpsuit and hard hat Paws his way through the dregs of a neighbourhood. Searching.
This is where cheap cars and Motorcycle all swaddled in the Cold, cold wind of past When you should have been home. This is where they come to shred These empty, field-friended roads. Where they hope against hope There is no ghost of other presence Here to crash into Like they never drove at all.
Through a tangle of tatami mats, Wood frames that once held a home, And the odd Hello Kitty alarm clock, He finds a paper crane. Sodden and forlorn. But it is tossed aside. No time to contemplate. There are more important things to find.
This is where time is immeasurable And landmarks unmarkable Lost in the lukewarm, attack-filled Night of things Undoable.
And his heart is too full. Ri´anna Peck Gaelcholaiste Choilm Ballincollig Co. Cork
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Elaine Guckian Mount Sackville Chapelizod Dublin 20
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¨ WRITE A POEM ¨ WRITE A POEM ¨ WRITE A POEM ¨ Looking through my sunglasses getting a sepia-coloured glimpse of my pursuit. Handgun knocking in the glovebox. The cassette radio screams scandal. The clock with no faces murmurs regret. I sit silent.
3rd Place - Senior Second-hand Jumper I think I share my soul with an old man a codger, a joker.
My neon china-town purple-painted lips tighten. I see him through my rear view mirror. He gives me a nostalgic smile and revs his car closer to mine, Driving his teeth through my windscreen-wiper heart. The world outside my windows going by at fifty frames per second. All images pixilating into a straight line. History flies by, Carelessly turning the wheels like a child pushing a pram. Death is the hubcap on my bonnet, As he serenades me with flowers, Edged with lies And Butterflies.
He was a dapper gent in his day slyly hid a wooden pipe married a quiet dark haired girl who collected tokens for a bow in a bowl smuggled butter in her brassiere. Her man shares his soul with me his dark humour crinkles my eyes his words burst forth from my own my shoulders carry both our burdens. Yet we are not world weary. We are ready for the road wrapped in this gorgeous jumper.
Celia Friel Loreto Community School Milford Co. Donegal
Sophie Cullen Notre Dame Secondary School Upper Churchtown Road Churchtown Dublin 14
JUNIOR WINNERS Joint 1st Place - Junior Joint 1st Place - Junior The Spaniard There I was standing, in the spotlight with the latest thingA fake bow. I was minding my business Ripping ants legs, and hearts, For that was what I enjoyed. Then he came With other weapons, better and newer A fake gun He befriended me and I did not hesitate to do the same. This relationship went on for weeks Until without warning He struck me He unleashed his new weapon and Conquered me. He took the ant s hearts I had used for sacrifice. Then set off to conquer anew.
Love Signed 280 SE 4.5
Ross Coleman Newpark Comprehensive School Newtown Park Avenue Blackrock, Co. Dublin
I pressed down on the accelerator pedal, no needs for brakes. I sit here in my Mercedes 280 SE 4.5 in pure white,
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Joint 1st Place - Junior
Days filled with hollowness Plus overtime pain you live through
Room 412 Age begins to beckon you to her corner Your mind is the same nothing s changed Without realizing gravity pulls you nearer and nearer Your body could not maintain the charade
In the beginning you were your own light Pure light Happy, energetic and carefree Living life Getting away with murder Being taken care of by your family
Even though you are now a shadow Memories, priceless, fleeting, cemented You will always be My loved one
Mature in responsibility A family of your own Not just you Days full of joy
O´rla Gately, Notre Dame Secondary School Upper Churchtown Road, Churchtown, Dublin 14
2nd Place - Junior Emigration Waves break on the shore Pebbles and Shells there no more Longing to return
Kyle Tiernan, Virginia College Virginia, Co. Cavan
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Teaching English Magazine POETRY WINNERS 2010 SENIOR WINNERS 1st Place - Senior Onion Flaky skin, wrinkled with age, a solid centre surrounded by layers of memory, sight and sound and smell. Fresh-tasting at first, in the spring of his life, shoots of green. The years in the fields have made him bitter, a reluctance to share secrets readily means digging down deep to find them. The gnarled hair and pockmarked skin hide well a man too sharp to flavour alone. Still, when combined with others he becomes a perfect compliment; anecdotes and tales bringing out flavours in others they didn t know they had themselves, though all along he maintains a supporting role, just an occasional prompt, to let you know he is still there, and very much a part of things. Disregard the outward signs that this is an allium best left alone. Patrick Hull Loreto Community School Milford Co Donegal
2nd Place Senior One Eight I approach cautiously, entirely unsure. I am numb to the past it is lost Sensitive to the future it will find me. Hiding is pointless. In awe of the prospect is the obligatory feeling. I would rather be back there Astray among the playing cards and games and chases, And trees and e´clairs and loving embraces.
Sarah Browne Jesus and Mary College Our Lady s Grove Goatstown Road Dublin 14
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¨ WRITE A POEM ¨ WRITE A POEM ¨ WRITE A POEM ¨ Joint 3rd Place Senior
Joint 4th Place Senior Blank Canvas
Judith and Holofernes Draping curtains as red as blood The maid will encourage Judith As she enters the realm of reality.
Autumn in Dublin with my Father, the only time nature visits the city. Paper dry leaves envelop the harsh pavements, crunching like stale cornflakes under each passing foot. Ambers, ochres and burnt-out browns merge into each other, painting the dreary landscape.
Holofernes s hand clenching The blood-stained sheets Upon which his body lies. His shoulder arching forward, His muscles pulsing. Outside the frame his legs are thrashing, As he tries to fight his fate, Screaming to his saviour in the heavens.
Curious feet would stomp over and back the North Circular, ears tuned in to the orchestra of crackles beneath.
Olivia Plunket, St Columba s College Whitechurch, Dublin 16
Ruby Malone Loreto Community School Milford Co Donegal
Joint 3rd Place Senior Evolution He picks for berries. Simple, content He leaves some for the next to come.
Joint 4th Place Senior Valentine s Day
Neanderthal he says, but hardly man at all, His accent, up his upper class ass. He directs us now to diagrams. Pre-historic man , he pauses for effect, His sickly grin, so gaunt, so gruesome, But we ve evolved he proclaims.
Dido sits on her pyre, Glancing furtively at the sea. Cleopatra gasps for Antony, Poison coursing through her blood.
We know better than to pick berries. We know better, we know better!
Othello places trembling hands, Around Desdemona s throat.
We know Science and Fact. We know war and tact. Philosophy, Psychology, Astrology and Theology.
Juliet thrusts a rusty blade, Into her pulsating chest. Young couples kiss on street corners, But black clouds are overhead,
We ve evolved. Now we know just what we want. We know better than to pick berries.
Eternally.
Cillian Fahy, Gort Community School Ennis Road, Gort, Co Galway
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Niall Guinan Athlone Community College Athlone Co Westmeath
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¨ WRITE A POEM ¨ WRITE A POEM ¨ WRITE A POEM ¨ JUNIOR WINNERS Blue Shimmering, reflecting, blue, Water and ultra marine skies. Hot light reflecting, waters retracting, Sun and heat, life and energy. Robin blue of the laundry, Making its way into every village. Krishna and his follies. The blue of animism and of cosmos, Deep blue of night sky, Clothes drying. Symbol of life.
1st Place Junior The Colours of Southern India Red Sunsets and sunrises like The tikka dots on women s foreheads. Red paste and flowers In the market. Religion and life Together joined. Passion and fruit, Weddings and the henna designs On the palms of girls about to be married.
Multicolours Crowds milling, chanting, laughing, Life, life vibrating, in the multitude of souls, Hot clothes and steaming bodies, Heat and exuberance. Vitality, joy. The plenitude of human experience. Bodies packed together tightly. Elephants, music and festivals, Celebrating the joy of being alive.
The start and end to a perfect day! Yellow Warm three-dimensional light Of the early post-dawn and Pre-dusk hours. Flowers and grains, Saffron and turmeric for decoration. Adornment for the Lord Buddhas s feet. Lemons for use in pujas for fertility.
Earth Mother earth the soul of the land Mother India Brown, Inundated with water, The tidal wealth of the subcontinent, Rich and pulsing with life. Clay-coloured temple carvingsMagnificent symbols of a past era. A time when artists were revered And the art of India a living, Vibrant form of expression. Brown and turgid at times, Life blood of this world.
Hope and devotion. Black Night. Evil spirits and thoughts rise To the fore. Meditation And passive contemplation An end to the day-a small death. Granite temple carvings, Small windows in the dark, And fire giving the soul Hope for tomorrow. White Saris of Christian women, Saris of widowed Hindu women, Pure, chaste and fervent. Strings of jasmine, Rich maharajas palaces, Lilies in ponds, Jain temples and carvings, Markings in ash paste on a Vaishnavite Sadhu s forehead.
Akshaya Sivakumar Cola´iste Pobail Setanta Phibblerestown Clonee Dublin 15
Green Rice paddies rolling like lifeEnchanching waves across the plains. Colour of the freshness that follows The annual monsoon Life-giving waters to nurture The crops. Symbol of good In dance, token of fertility Otherwise. Hope springs Through its verdant shades.
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2nd Place Junior Though There Are Exams Though there are exams, There are summer holidays. Though, somewhere in the world, Women are grieving husbands lost at war, There are thousands of hot air balloons Floating through a blue, cloudless sky. Though there are police chases in America, There are tea parties in England. Though there are homeless people Wandering the streets In the lashing rain, There are African tribes, Pounding beats on drums and Jumping and dancing in glorious sunshine. Though trees are being knocked down In the Amazon And ice caps are melting In Antarctica, There are wild mustangs Galloping across open fields and Young dolphins swimming through Crystal clear oceans. Though there are exams, There are summer holidays. Jennifer Kelly, Ardscoil Mhuire, Mackey Ballinasloe, Co. Galway Joint 3rd Place Junior The Painting
A small package Stuffed to the brim With glitter, Sprinkling each silver speck So blithely, Yet so perfectly, So peacefully, A hushed and Enchanted midnight.
You dip the tip Of the stiff bristles Into a watery Orange, As strong as a lion, Brandishing your brush But as you go on The look of determination
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This painting Now centres your life. Day and night You work with persistence. It s beautiful, Incomparable. You leave its side Only once And arrive to An unrecognisable canvas, Smudged and preposterous. Sorry, I tripped You are outraged. And with two angered hands You raise it and BANG! It smashes Against the stool you sat upon Painting this for days. An earthquake erupts this Scene of bliss What once was so sublime Is now nothing but pieces, Nothing but fragments, That are meaningless, Worthless.
The End Decaying walls draw close, Figures haunt the long dank halls Old faces striking friendly poses, Unknown strangers behind cheap stalls, Water drips slowly down The concrete blocks which surround, All that is left to call your own That and the slowly fading sound. Hands now shake, ears fail, Friends lie rotting in the ground, Eyes strain to no avail, Strength leaches, heart pounds. Cage doors thrown open, Light envelops all, The heart stops beating: Life has ceased to call. Chris Tuohy Mount St. Michael Secondary School Rosscarbery Co. Cork
A finger out of line And everything is wrong Or is it what was planned? And you are so careful Lest you hurt someone, Something. But the accident is there For all to see, And to ever be remembered, But was and is fixable, Hopefully. Asha Bourne, Maryfield College Glandore Road, Drumcondra, Dublin 9 Joint 3rd Place Junior Watermelon Refrigerator This is a poem. It has to be ten lines long. I don t know what to write but that doesn t matter Because it can be about anything. Kiwi racecar. Watermelon refrigerator. Is it ten lines long yet? No? I ll continue then with this nothingness That is like a plain dark room. You don t know what Is in the room until you turn on a light so you can Only imagine nothingness. Sticky polka dot Flamingo.
Ruth Gallagher Jesus and Mary College Our Lady s Grove Dublin 14
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Teaching English Magazine POETRY WINNERS 2009 Joint 2nd Place Senior
SENIOR WINNERS 1st Place Senior Windmill Lane My children will know Windmill Lane is beautiful, They will know that every love is true, They will count the rainbows in an oil spill, They will learn to fight so they never have to. My children will see pigeons wearing emeralds and magpies in tuxedos, They will see wings on every shoulder blade, They will know the sound of their own voices, They will trust the dark, instead of being afraid.
Wearing Shorts All Winter
My children will read people before novels, novels before news, They will sing their mind and speak their heart out, They will write fairytales on train tickets, They will have faith made valuable by doubt.
I am a scorpion Heavy-limbed, unmotivated Restless and unhappy I don t care what you ll pay I just want to sleep Through all the great things That you say are happening.
My children will have Dublin statues in their veins, They will pick out galaxies in city lights, They will hear the words that can t be said, They will know that nothing is ever black and white.
It s twelve o clock, pumpkin, and You ll come when you re called! Breakfast s on the table and The shovel s in the hall.
My children will treasure questions more than answers, They will know that you can t live unless you feel, They will be the heart in every corner of the world, And then they will be real.
I am a scorpion damnit! Sore-eyed, unfriendly Pissed off and tired. You may make perfect sense But you re still wrong. So please retreat from my lair And consider me fired.
Sarah Grace Loreto Abbey Dalkey Co. Dublin
You do this every time you know! So suit yourself, bite your nose to spite your face, But don t come crying to me when You are wanting your own place. I am a scorpion and there s Silence in my darkened room I turn on my i-pod and quietly sing. Bite my nose to spite my face? You may be onto something there. But I am a scorpion and It s in my nature to sting. Robert McCarthy Wesley College Ballinteer Dublin 16
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Joint 3rd Place Senior
Fires of Gylfaginning
Cancer Sticks
I saw a death today how vile, Foul murder of fine art, The victim did not scream, could not, Yet still could wrench my heart, No blood was spilled, nor entrails poured, Yet still my stomach turned, To see ashes in fair Florence town, Where Savonarola s hatred burned.
Cancer sticks Mum called them; Her finger wagging in Marty s face Like Rex s tail On a day at the beach. Her cheerful optimism: You ll be dead by thirty Was like a breath of fresh air Through the haze of tobacco That lingered, regardless.
In Paris a tear tugged at my eye, Where Lalique s fountains are marred, By a world that s held magnificence, But in such low regard.
Cocooned in his pocket they lay Waiting, Waiting, Waiting For liberation. Marty, Softly caressing death with his lips.
So I ask, finding Rome s sculpted face Lost in modernity, What scholars of eight decades past Knew of eternity? At Istanbul, were Turk blades stayed For wonders in ancient Greek, Or for pretty golden wings and A gold-enamelled beak?
Then came the cough, A hacking, rasping echo Through the house, Rattling the single-glazed panes As marbles in a tin.
By mortal smith, magic came to pass, Flamed but for a mayfly s day, Then by raged fire, by hand of man Man-like, passed away.
Your anger when the newsagent Closed on Labor Day. I watched you through the keyhole Heaving and retching, Stuffing bloodstained tissues out of sight. But I kept quiet. Quiet as the whispers that passed Between my clasped palms And the sky.
Eoin O Leary, Kinsale Community School Kinsale, Co. Cork Joint 3rd Place Senior Picnics Lets cut out the stars Suck up the clouds Give the sun a sleeping tablet or two I ll paralyse the moon And we ll have a picnic In the clear sky Reserved for me and you
I remember that day With planes on the telly. When hushed sobs from the bedroom Drowned out the explosions. Tears extinguished the fires As Marty fell alongside the twins.
Emma Cahill, Manor House School Watermill Road, Raheny Dublin 5
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Kyrsten Baker Wesley College Ballinteer Dublin 16
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JUNIOR WINNERS 1st Place
A Skull in Connemara Heritage After Samuel Beckett I am from the hill that lies between two valleys the family of the mountains the family of the mill.
For millennia he has been there, blanched bone, decaying in silt. Beneath the filth of time his hinged jaw cackles eternally.
I am from the hand mangled by the threshing machine My grandfather s blood mixed with the age old land
Above, in a lonely future, pelting rain whittles at stone wallsthe rubbled, starving significance of descendants born in coffin ships, breathing Boston air.
I am from the fireplace banter, the psalms of time, of David, Israel and Babylon, the closely knit Covenanters.
Erosive water seeps down from boreen to bog, peaty history sodden in the same old shite.
This is what I am: The hill, the hand, the Covenanters A child of the land.
A sparrow hobbles about and burrows for grubs between green blades. A digger with a claw crawls back home, pneumatic drill slung in the trailer.
Matthew Mc Mahon Loreto Community School Milford Co. Donegal
All around the skull life shuffles on, along a path hewn, hacked, dug from mud and rocks. Andrew King Gonzaga College Sandford Road Ranelagh Dublin 6
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Joint 2nd Place Junior
The Art of War
After Amy
The destructive bomb, Frightening, The brave solider, Frightened, The hot gun, accurate, The deafening bullets devastating. The bloody wound, Infected, The rotten blood, pungent, The towering tank, unstoppable, The tough truck, Immune. The agile jet, racing. The worn boots, crawling, The flaming desert, baking, The tired solider, sweating. The hidden mine, waiting, The careless squad, slip, The lonely wife, crying, The art of war, Overwhelming
Dust settled on the townscape on my sister s abandoned table every time she left the room. An eerie silence would fall on the town of skyscraper stacks of books A derelict winter town of dog-eared and graffitied walls. Books of different sizes slumped together in a shanty order only she could understand. The map of her chaos: her timetable lay open like a bomb ticking down the days. Scrunched paper and fallen pen caps littered the scene while her reading lamp provided a dim streetlight. An open pencil case suggested an air of activity like a travelling circus it returned with her each night. The town was bedlam sparks of paint across the desk and frazzled paintbrushes- the delinquent residentswere hard to miss when visiting. Not that I got to often. This was her city, her haven, not big enough for the two of us. The city sheltered her through the winter months when she barely left, until the summer bomb came counting down. The skyscrapers were demolished, the valuables, packed, the litter binned. It s been a year since I last saw the town and I wonder is there a new one where she is now.
Inspired by Dulce et Decorum est, by Wilfred Owen Stephen Kelly Patrician Secondary School Newbridge Co. Kildare
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Alice Murray Loreto Community School Milford Co. Donegal
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Joint 3rd Place Junior
The Sword and the Sheath So I draw the sword From the falling sun. Blood of Aeneas Is staining my heart, In a lover s anguish turned to black I cast my wet eyes A pyre built high. And an effigy With garlands of grief, Like a scabbard to my naked heart.
Frogs Aching for a place Where they bow with ornate smiles Where the sky needs not the ground The gravity to lean on Where there is love and nothing more The instant kind Like deep rich coffee That they recognise you by your shoe size That they dream about you Wake to see your eyes, your smile Gallantly chase after you Fight tirelessly to save you Completely unable to Live without you You, the cool night ink The golden dawn, the smoky dusk Up high above the common futile dreams Perfect beyond the need To saddle up in shining armour To fight and conquer the world Freedom, a pointless word Beautiful, one could say A charm that can be bought and lost Waiting like a delicate flower The crinkle of a blossom No purpose but to exist and shine Waiting, searching for a prince
Clouds and stars climb high But for me they fall. The heavens light up And I rest my life, In the dark, empty sheath of the night. Aoibheann Schwartz Gorey Community School Esmondes Street Gorey Co. Wexford Joint 3rd Place What are ... the Stars The stars are glitter sparkling On a black board, They are thousands of gold coins Thrown into the night sky, They are pieces of bon fire Kicked into space, They are the sparks that shoot from fire And land on black marble,
Out of stories woven by desperate dreams Returning to flashing lights and pounding music Not in so many words a princess But for some fanatical reason Kissing frogs
They are golden leaves On navy silk. Modelled on the poem What is ‌ the Sun , by Wes Magee
Sinead Kilgarriff Our Lady s Bower, Retreat Road Athlone Co. Westmeath
Lorraine Bannon St. Mogue s College Bawnboy Co. Cavan
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Teaching English Magazine POETRY WINNERS 2008 Senior Winners
Joint 2nd Place Senior
1st Place Senior
Hark! The Harlequin Sound of Dancing Aristocrats
Fishwives Tales
Our feet: they are swinging to a scarlet symphony Gliding, turning, twisting, diving, all is dancing Maelstroms of colour - red bleeding into yellow bleeding into gold blending into silver We will rise and sink and rise in kaleidoscope. Electricity-hued hurricanes are our bodies Hands on waists, the whirl of plumage dizzies Dust dances! We will dance our dust into diamonds. Air is dancing - oxygen molecules batter themselves into violets, fuchsias, eye-tightening artic blues Lurid silks and ribbons reach for our heads, dangling and tangling Betwixt our legs so swift As music-bound feet kick to crochets of crimson Yet He stands alone in a subdued centre. Green light duskily pulses. Peacock attired, His hair is stiff with champagne.
Did you hear about the Baker s daughter? Throw to the gutter a slap as a fish hits the table, chop off the head and watch the eyes go misty let spangled innards spew to the floor.
The dance is unimportant, he will smile with a charm that alarms And the corner of his eye is stained with a yearning. It is our thundering lava of colour that he so longs to suspend, To present to her in a ruby-encrusted vial, upon pillows satin and secure,
Is it true about the Baker s daughter? Throw to the skinner a slap as a fish hits the table, and he who peels with slimy distaste can sense the grimace in shards of silver.
Even though he is painfully aware That, for all her breaths, she dances Her own march to monochrome.
Such a story about the Baker s daughter! Throw to the boner a slap as the fish hits the table, press and prise the backbone apart as it joins a pile of marrow, graves unseen.
Inspired by the novel The Great Gatsby´ by F. Scott Fitzgerald
Tell me more about the Baker s daughter. Throw to the cutter a slap as the fish hits the table, slice goes the silver as the blade rips flooded flesh. Let red stain the floor, chunks of meat thrown to a bucket The fish is whole no more. Cli´odhna Walsh, St. Angela s Ursuline Convent Waterford
Rebekah Mooney,Loreto Community School Milford, Co. Donegal.
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¨ WRITE A POEM ¨ WRITE A POEM ¨ WRITE A POEM ¨ its Russian flavour is almost totally bastardized bar the biting chill, that forces even the hardiest of farmers into the fireside, where the kettle waits. It slips gracefully through the svelte pines, as they reach out, with their battle-hardened foliage, unaffected by the tenacious gusts. Still it migrates west, to the highlands and lowlands of Scotland, where it s pneumatic power drives the kites of children, who freely roam the fields, well prepared for battle with the invisible foe, armed with scarves and hats and gloves. It pitches and rolls, the car ferries in the Irish Sea, making unseasoned sailors reach for a bucket. The sun is shining in Donegal but the wind retains a certain self-importance, by refusing to warm even slightly. It subjects the metal and steel of ersatz high-rises in Letterkenny to the sound of a cavalry charge. It makes a chorale hum as it passes the old brickwork of Ramelton s Plantation buildings. Finally it arrives, and swirls round me, like the most elegant of cursive handwriting, stinging my face, as I watch the white-capped waves break on the shores of Rathmullan beach.
Joint 2nd Place Senior Airborne The cold wind blows into my face, but this simple statement does not do justice, to what went before: a skin-drying, eyeball-watering, and ultimately dead wind ends its journey here. Born in the Siberian Plains the calloused east it sweeps west, an infinity of nothing. Frozen and void searching for the piece of exposed skin, respecting neither personal space nor international boundaries.It is its own emancipator, free to travel where it likes. It crosses St. Petersburg, whipping past the dreaming spires, where religion and art and history all combine. It clutches at, and manages to grasp, the woody, charcoal scent of the street-vendors and their braziers. It rushes on, to the seaport at Riga, where the taste of fish is skimmed by a low breeze, as if it is a natural part of the cobbled streets. A place where, in the wet, even the buildings shimmer as if made of scales. Across the Baltic Sea, it toys with boats. With little conscience it forces the crew of a tiny trawler to batten down the hatches, and pray to any God that will listen. It does its part for the jagged fjords and tiny inlets of the Scandinavian coast, where indeed many a boat has met its end, in the towering inferno and bone-crushing drop, of a thirty foot wave. As it moves, over small Danish islands, with populations of a mere twenty or thirty,
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Patrick Hull, Loreto Community School Milford, Co. Donegal.
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First Place Junior
Finn s Wood
Marmalade We talk on late evenings When the sky is copper rich with the descending sun. I walk up a mossy pathway to you Drooping shoulders from a day done. Sometimes I will catch your hand Where meandering veins run deep blue. I love the likeness of our fingers. Waiting is the game I play To cherish soft wrinkles like you do. A pot sits fat with oranges And sticky sugar, boiling. I help you find numbers on knobs, Put jars in the oven.
The Field This is the gateway to heaven. A steep slope of radiant green descending To a pheasant s nest, a rabbit s burrow Nestled along the ebbing tide of trees. I trudge into the unknown darkness, alone. Yet generations gone-by walk with me.
I listen for your heart to sing. It s a gentle humming noise And it warms me through, For I truly love to be with you When you are making marmalade.
The Brambles A tangled mass of razor teeth Grab and snatch at all in reach, This beast has entwined half my family tree As it now entwines around my ankles, Experienced feet feel their way with care Emerging triumphant from its lair.
Claire Anderson, Carrigaline Community School, Cork
The Stream A delicate instrument tuned to nature s song. Meandering without care, without stop, A narrow tendril of life sharing its vitality, An artery and a vein to the green heart of the wood, Shining bright, flowing defiantly, an instant muse And my guide through the chaos and confusion. The Bluebells They herald the approaching spring Youthful shoots springing from ancestral winter mud Baby blue heads swaying, hypnotically, left to right Sheltered lovingly by grandfather oak s stout boughs. I step lightly over one then another Passing with care through this nursery. The Hill It rises before me, pinnacle of the wood. All darkness and disorder falls way In the wake of its sloping grace and golden hue. These sights are a living draught to my weary mind As I sit upon its ancient peak and at a glance See among these trees both my past and present. In response to Carrigskeewaun by Michael Longley Anne O Donovan, Colaiste na Toirbhirte Bandon, Co. Cork
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Joint 2nd Place Junior
Love, Tears and Mourning
Fear
In response to Siegfried Sassoon s Base Details
In response to Book 24 of Homer s Illiad
A tranquil field Grass tilting in a slight sigh of wind Turning into Heavy breathing, heart thumping, Noise Confusion Fear.
They mourn their loved ones death Find comfort in each other And cry tenderly. Hut lit by soft candle light, To hide the harsh night A room full of pain.
The jagged stump of a tree hidden in moss, The cheerful chirping of a blackbird, Turning into Piercing screams, the shriek of shells Bodies Darkness Fear.
Emptiness is felt strongly As each tear falls from his eye, Heartbroken forever. With a Trojan hero dead, A Greek companion lost, Enemies grieve.
Fifty years The same field under the same Crimson-tinged sunset will always hold Pain Blood A memory that s more than just a memory.
Hector s motionless body Is wrapped in a robe In pity for old Priam. Now, holding his lifeless son, Priam carries him to the cart And rests him down.
Noise Confusion The never ending nightmare from my past to my future.
They are greeted with sadness, All wailing laments for him, Tamer of horses.
Bodies Darkness More than just a memory.
A burial full of grief, A glorious feast For Hector the great.
Fear. Marie-Claire Twomey, St. Aloysius College Carrigtwohill, Co. Cork Joint 3rd Prize Junior The Marines Mission Bring your bombs, bring your guns, Watch the fathers mourn their Sons… With each bullet, with each shell you Plunder more black gold to Sell... With each battle with each fight, You further your ever righteous Plight In the desert fighting hard, Ignorant of the wounded, killed and Scarred!
Danielle Doyle, Gorey Community School, County Wexford.
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Neale Keegan, St. Killian s Community School Ballywaltrim, Bray, Co. Wicklow
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Teaching English Magazine POETRY WINNERS 2007 First Place Senior
Senior Prizewinner
Lost in Translation
Romantic Wishes
A late Friday night On a forty-five Going out to Bray For an end of mocks Celebratory dinner, We sat huddled together Laughing in whispers, Under the dim flash Of passing lights Through the condensationCovered window.
I want to be A glorious warlord With armies at hand My own dark horde I want to have Complete power And fill up graveyards By the hour I want to know What if feels like To destroy your enemy And place his head on a pike
I watched her face come And go With the passing cars And got lost In the silence When I kissed her.
Jonathan Rigley Inspired by In Berne by Kerry Hardie
Senior Prizewinner
We were on the bus Just twenty minutes When they got on A gang of four, Old ladies, Effen and blinden, Laughing and joking, Senses excited and aroused, Ready for a night out. They sat down in front of us And painted the silence.
Grandparent Time Tick, Tock, The unmoving clock Glaring down on faces Of two golden singles, That make up this couple. Sitting in silence. Their world has become different, Frightening. Dust gathers everywhere On phone, television, clothes, Faces. They drink from dusty cups Sweet tea sprinkled with dust. Dust.
It was only as our carriage Entered Bray that I began To listen: My daughter doesn t like Me wearing these shoes, She says they re lesbian shoes And at the time I really thought nothing Of it. It was only during the dinner That I heard the echo, Of her daughter, Telling her mother Her shoes are gay.
Observing this Continuous respite from time I cry inwardly and smile, To their almost blind eyes Thinking of something, anything To say. Dust gathers on the rim Of my dusty cup.
Eoghan Carrick
The clock does move. But only when no one is looking Emma Fitzharris
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Ist Prize Junior
Downings in Spring
The Table
The army of yachts returns to Mulroy, Hulls freshly painted, A new generation at the helm.
The table in my Dad s studio Had layer upon layer of thick, glutinous oil paint, An explosion of pigments Swirling and blending with each other Like a vibrant landscape, The bright sun shining in Making each colour sparkle a different diamond.
Lambs bleat and stagger on unaccustomed feet, While Gania Mo´r heaves a sigh of relief. Harsh winds in the past, New beginning at last.
Fresh mountains of paint, Sticky and soft and screaming to be used, Old mounds of dry encrusted paint Slumped to the side.
Dust particles somersault and daringly dance Dodging the yearly attack of the dusters in the thatch.
When touched it was like finding a rock among soil, Some jaggedy and some smooth, all different.
Yellow drops of sunshine show their wicked side, Slyly hiding thorns, yet pleasing to the eye.
The table in my Dad s studio was cluttered: Empty jars and broken pots, faded photographs which once owned colour, Countless squeezed-out tubes of paint Piled into the shape of a pyramid.
Meevagh awakens in the early morning sun, Dewdrops dive to the murky depths of Pollgorm. The regiment of yellow oil-skins returns from a Hard days battle to see Mc Veagh with the catch of the day.
Raggedy cloths hung on hooks on the table, The creases cemented by dried-up paint. The splashing of paint, splattered and scattered on the floor, Had been there since the beginning. Coffee mugs of different shapes and sizes, Old and new, made up a private collection
The retreating tide reveals footsteps on Tra Mo´r Along with freshly slimed rocks and crabs galore. Waves of blooming heather crash over Kinnelargy, Dooey begins to slowly relax While the threatening surge of the ocean slips into the past.
Old paint brushes long past their use, With hair thinning and tips splayed, Were kept as keepsakes, Each with its own individual texture and history. The new brushes waited in their pristine condition, A velvety softness against my skin, Each one proudly awaiting its destiny.
The dunes of Downings celebrate, For they have won the battle. Winter has been defeated And seeds of joy are sown In the fields of Dundoan. Stacey Mc Nutt
I was never allowed to touch the paintings Only stare and dare to imagine what colour he d use next. When I d wake up in the morning I d sit and watch him paint Listen to him humming a tune Or inhale the linseed and turps aroma That lay heavily in the air. And when I wasn t observing the changes on the canvas I was observing the changes on the table. Rebekah Mooney
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Junior Prizewinner
Tempo
Coffee
Music is my life, Rhythm flows deep within me, Never-ending notes!
Catie Riordan Junior Prizewinner Nuneaton
The lid pops open, gulping air, An aroma, irrigating my senses, Maroons me in a forest of fluids With red and blue macaws, Lizards and too much foliage. Men with rich brown skin are haggling, dealing But their pesos can t pierce the canopy. My eager lips kiss the humidity And the steam mists my vision Of a grinding enslavement And I am drinking it down. I remember cobbled streets Like overgrown pebbles beneath my feet, The smell of green, clear of the flowers That slowly disappeared To a friend, a lover, a mother or a bedside.
Ellen Hanly Junior Prizewinner He wishes for dose Nikeys! I d love to buy you dose Nikeys D wans ya loves wit d gold and silver tick I d buy ya d blue, dim and dark wans too, So you d be in nikeys in nights, day and in between! I d put dem on your feet, But me, avin no dosh dis month, only could afford reeboks, So put dese reeboks on your feet, Tread softly, cuz your walkin on my hard earned cash!!
The taste of town cuisine That was far from lean; Fish and chips dressed in the best of the week s news And pigeons searched for scraps and released gentle coos. On market days the town bustled with sound, One, two, three for a pound. The yellow stone fountain flowed and flowered out While George Eliot sat in monochrome Book in hand, a ghost from home.
Modelled on He Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven by W.B. Yeats
Catherine Buck
Rebecca Holland
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Teaching English Magazine POETRY WINNERS 2006 1st Place Senior
Senior Prizewinner
Births, Deaths and Marriages
Emergency Exit
The coughing and spluttering That was her one companion Came frothing from her mouth, Tinged with blood and mucous And fell into a silver pail that had seen As many loaves of bread made as children sick.
I could use an exit right now How about you? We could kick down doors And stumble like gray horses into the night, kicking, screaming, singing our battle-cries to the deaf
The angelus tolled on Radio Eireann As she whispered and muttered under her breath The words that came as habitually as a child s need for her mother. Her broad shoulders that had been used to so much labour Heaved with the coughing, Her ninety-year-old lungs groaned and wheezed with effort.
highways and stupid skies and we could throw our burning glass ambitions against the walls and holler This is all I have to give!? We could purr like cats and burn our tails And waste our nine lives on nine dirty roads.
Visitors came and outstayed their welcome As her family served them tea and wiped her brow. Mutters of she lived a long life were commonplace. But what should it matter if she lived nine or ninety years? Was that meant to comfort?
We really could, we could do it all. We could leave through the back door, Clutching only hands and swords And rain-clouds to keep us awake,
The candle of hope burned brightly in the hearts of the young While the adults exchanged knowing glances. The children took turns in brushing the thin, grey hair As she slept, while others sang songs. Her skin, so white, was stretched across the bone And the nails, worn down with work, like feathers.
Swimming through the storm like a tiny fish With a rip in it s mouth where the hook used to be. Speaking in bubbles: Free Free Free Free
And the last few words through fits of sleep Is my tart still in the oven Weighed heavily upon my heart.
A. J. Britz
The coffin stayed closed, the cakes were eaten And the last dregs of tea were drunk. The top of the newspaper page read: Births, Deaths and Marriages Times New Roman More births than marriages, I thought. Ninety years in five short sentences or forty lines. Until one day I said to myself, She did live a long life. And the stars did not stop spinning. E´ithne O Connor
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Senior Prizewinner
Hero
Dear John
I remember the rage, The screaming in my stomach, The blisters in my bowels I remember a field in spring, With lambs-leaping-lovely I remember the stone in my hand, I remember the lamb. I remember the love When you were around Your green eyes slew my soul I remember by the rock, The sun melting on your skin I remember the day we met I remember the day you left. I remember the sorrow, The Christmas there was to be no tree, The anger in his eyes, I remember John Lennon over and over again, If you want to be a hero then just follow me I remember why it spoke to me, I remember that Christmas tree. The flea hath not wed us For he hath bit multitudes, Our two bloods mingle Amongst cats and dogs. You hath said This enjoys before it woo But I ask you, Hast thou not the knowledge That the deep red drops It stole from me Was nothing but necessity? Thou compareth love and intimacy To the habits and life of a flea. I ask thee, art thou a spider? Longing to devour, Twisting threads artistically To suit your needs, To gain what thou desireth, And have pleasure at your leisure. But I shan t be A blind butterfly, And get captured in your web, Your invisible ruthless ropes Though like silver tempting lace, Shine with glee and innocence, But enrapture me? They will not! Thee and thou flea Are nothing but conspiracy!
Ciaran Mc Brearty
Ann. Irina Gerber
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Junior Prizewinner
Graffiti
Butterflies
Once this was a blank wall Painted whitish brown A clean, new easel For the artists of the town.
Move like a soft breeze, a silk sunrise breathing an eiderdown of daylight. I close my eyes and breathe reds and yellows, blues and alizarin hues and you, a dream ever-dancing from my grasp. The lightest of fingerprints, you touch on words like flowers: azaleas, bluebells, hyacinths, the strawberry moist of your mouth splitting your face with joy. Light spills from the butterflies of your eyes, warmth from your heart, fluttering like a bird shooting a streak of colour through the sky I feel warmth in your presence. There is summer in your smile. Kerri Ward
A group of giggling schoolgirls Walking by the pier, One spies the wall and writes Sophie was here A love-struck admirer, Passion in his bones, Chris loves Amy Is scribbled on the stones. A gang of college students, Loaded full of beer Fill the wall with lots of words I won t repeat here. Young politicians nail a poster to the wall, Soon passers-by are told to Vote Fianna Fa´il . An eight-year-old schoolboy Much to be feared Decorates the poster Bertie grew a beard! The wall is now a work of art, A vision to behold, And behind each coloured word A story can be told. A worker for the council, With a heavy frown Covers up the artwork with A shade of whitish brown Laura Reaney
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Junior Prizewinner
The Clock Nervously I waited, as the clock ticked on the wall. Waiting for the inevitable news, as the tears started to fall. The sickness had taken over him, like a forced tyranny. Helplessly watching the time with him slipping through my fingers. Somehow I began to envy the clock, Not having to feel this unbearable pain. Not a friend, not a loved one, just a gloomy spectator on the wall. I felt it watching me, jeering with its wooden eyes, Its ticking metronome controlling the soft rise and fall of his chest. And when he slipped away, as in a breathless sleep, I somehow expected the clock would stop too. But it continued on in its steady pulse, As if nothing had every really happened. Not one sound bar the clock, Tick, tock, tick, tock. Night
Eithne Fitzsimons
The stream trickling Trees whispering Something stirs in the dark. Shadows moving Branches looming No angels here to hark. Heavy breathing Hearts beating Eternal darkness all around. Creepers winding Grips tightening Nothing makes a sound. Confidence falling Fear calling Under night s dark cover. Silent screaming Souls weary Nothing to discover. Sun rise and sun set Here comes another Night to haunt my sleep Make me hold my soul tight That keeps me from the day-time light And shows me my fears in black with fright.
Claire Anderson
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Teaching English Magazine POETRY WINNERS 2005 1st Place Senior
Senior Prizewinner
Tomatoes
Lost
I feel sad when the sun shines here, Its familiar light revealing Unfamiliar absences. Another year separates us-
I stumble blindly through the woods Three hundred cries, three hundred more. I am lost, far from friend or foe. Despair grips me, and desperately hopeful That it might bring help, I resort To a silent, primal scream of the soul Deeper and more urgent than prayer.
It was all ours: The forest, the fields, the streams… We went barefoot, explored and built dams. Tomatoes ripened In the exotic heat from the Tunnel.
I would bargain with the most mercenary of saviours To be free of this lonely, confusing maze.
I loved our little house Where my mother, On hands and knees, Carefully clipped the edges of our Five little lawns.
The amber shade of the sun through autumn leaves A short hour ago so motherly and welcoming Has become oppressive heavy, almost solid, The walls of a natural prison These woods have trapped me Without so much as shutting a door.
There s nothing left now. Just my family: Five of usIn a square, grey house.
I am at the mercy of the forest and my fear is great That my crimes against the all-mother Will no longer go unpunished. Worse, I fear that retribution, For the trespasses of my brethren, Shall be visited upon me.
My childhood friends have moved away. Brambles grow though the roses And the gaping Tunnel shields only Brittle stalks of long-dead tomatoes.
Regret, remorse seize me And I remember, in a light most bitter, The ones who led me down this path, The serpents that whispered in my ear Mother needn t know, mother needn t know…
The forests were felled. We stay inside with the curtains drawn, Watching TV. No-one notices.
Harry Kelly Inspired by Donal O´g , translated by Lady Gregory.
Grass is beginning to creep Over the unused piles of bricks. Something has died… This place is a warped echo of the past. We expect nothing from each other. My life here is already a pleasant Memory. I m waitingWaiting to begin my life. Waiting to leave.
Vraja Lila Blake
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1st Place Junior
Temperatures
What are the Stars?
You are the womb That is the spring and source of my conception And only now, With cola-flavoured strawberries on my neck, Am I reborn. The blood that flowed from my mortal wounds Is hidden beneath a stream of watermelon sugar And the once-treacherous tidal wave of your eyes Now mercifully envelops me In a blanket of liquid glass, glittering Like the iridescent burn-wings Of morpho-butterflies.
The stars are flicks of yellow paint, Against a black canvas. They are night lamps turned on, In the houses of heaven. They are shiny gold coins, Falling from God s pocket. They are millions of lighthouses, On a dark sea at night. They are bright candles held by spirits, Trying to find their way to heaven.
But your mockingbird shadow haunts me Teasing my mind promiscuously, Like the sharp curves and tender angles Of a rose petal sea. And my throat, Still filled with the sweet taste Of a salty hibernation, Reminds me of my loving, aqua-coloured death And my most desired cause. For better, for worse, In loving life and loveless death You are my Shiva And I am of you.
Aisling Murray Modelled on What is the Sun? by Wes Magee
Roe Mc Dermott
Senior Prizewinner Alone I travel alone. Along the endless rows of houses, Each merging into one another, No distinction. The darkness blankets all, The void filled with emptiness. The wind howls and bites, Across the vast expanse. And there I am. Between the two lines, In no man s land, Drowning in darkness. I sense the light. It stabs from the edge, It flickers, taunts, But never quite seems to reach me. Darkness engulfs me, Alone in the darkness. Duane Browne
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Junior Prizewinner
Blue Circus
Everything Changes
Her body is elegantly Painted. Red with flower patterns, A pair of blue shorts, Elaborately embroidered
Go, Eveline, go! What s here for you? A family who cares? A father who loves? No, Eveline, no.
Her long black hair Swings over her Flawless face. She holds a fan. She is the trapeze artist.
Everything changes. Its a long time ago Since you and your friends Used to play in the snow, Just go, Eveline, go!
A beam of light Falls on her, Cutting a way Through the deep blue Of the circus tent.
So tired, young Eveline. What s here for you? A drunken old father What did he ever do? Go, Eveline, go!
Circus folk play music. On a tambourine, An accordion, A cello, And an oboe.
Selena Campbell
The moon has grown A hand To play the violin. The cockerel beats A tiny drum.
Diamond
Inspired by the short story, Eveline , by James Joyce Junior Prizewinner
Mounted in a jeweller s window You seduced my helpless eye, Capturing my gaze with your clean-cut smile, Your twinkling wink, dazzling me with your fire, Your internal inferno. Paralysed by your beauty, Wildly entranced by your figure, I gazed upon your finely cut body As it blasted out an array of rainbows Onto the glass separating you and I. How I would love to hold you as my own. To me, precious Diamond, You are much more than just sparkle and stone.
A green show horse Looks on admiring The trapeze artist, While flying fish throw Flowers to her. Yet outside The beam of light, Dark blue shadows loom. Silhouettes of people Dance in the dark.
Ahmad Asad
High in the air The trapeze artist looks on, Her cheeks rouge. She gazes into the shadows, Conscious of the fall. Claire McSweeney Inspired by the painting, Blue Circus by Marc Chagall
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Teaching English Magazine POETRY WINNERS 2004 Across the bay Stand masses of crosses, Bequeathing to their owners Eternal landscapes of beauty.
1st Place Senior Connemara Impressions
The wind blows stronger, Reaching into the worn crevices, Of Fahy s forlorn castle, Now forsaken to nettles, Thanks to the ambitions of foreign lords, And a last resistance, drowning under time. A solitary figure, Standing vulnerable on the slip, Tendrils of hair obscuring my vision. I am small, and overwhelmed by these Impressions of nature, The vastness of time, And my position in it. Treasa Ni´ Dhubhluachra
Senior Prizewinner Tallaght It was the pine tree That welcomed my arrival, Mimicking the wrath of the sea In its wind tossed rustling.
NOTHING is so beautiful as Tallaght When burnt cars and wheels look long and lovely, in that bush Scumbags heads look little low hoodies and Garda Through the echoing siren does screech and skid The ear, he s frightening to hear him roar. The glassy eyed eejit leaves the scene, The descending blue; that speeding is all up and down With speediness, the racing joyriders do have deadly their buzz.
Just beyond a monster sleeps, Hidden under a blanket Of moss and wilful weeds, Asleep for ten thousand years, In a grey endless dream. The wind blows with a force That could frighten the weak Or give life to the inspired, Transforming the hues of the world, And exhaling into the sea The ferocity of wakefulness.
What is all this fun and all theses frolics? A strain on the government s sweet handout In Serpent s Garden Have, rob, before it s gone, Before they kill, Christ Lord, they re sour with sinning, Innocent mind corrupted in girl and boy Most, O Maid s child, thy choice, un-worthy the loser.
The waves multiply Till the sea becomes enslaved To the surface movements Of thousands of minions, Moving like troops In unison, and with lives short-lived, Dying in beautiful white foamy bursts.
Steven Kavanagh Modelled on Spring by G. M. Hopkins.
Around the anonymous harbour Grow tufts of green grass, amid the vestiges Of burnt umber hay.
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¨ WRITE A POEM ¨ WRITE A POEM ¨ WRITE A POEM ¨ Greeted by Polished eyes Familiarity ensues -
Senior Prizewinner Deep Blue Feelings
And then I Play the Waiting game The phonecalls Seldom Come I Wait, Sometimes Standing Dead tree, Awaiting Rot
The uncontrollable surge of anger Swelling again Like a storm-brewed tidal wave Raining blows Upon the unflinching seashore rocks.
Corridors of my Mind bustle A Reason Searched My Branched life Decays And in the Wind Sways
The aftermath: Salted water streaming in shamed droplets, The perpetrator Withdrawing with guilty iniquity leaving behind A stripped soul, A bruised countenance and a mind confused with the injustice But silent Always silent, defenceless like a seashore rock Waiting For the next storm when the angry tide will swell But, still, A seashore rock can never tell.
I will stand Tall and Vigilant Strong against his Gale of Words, I Know his True Illness, Will Corrupt me from my Roots And we are here, In the Same Darkness But in the Same Light And we Stand, and slowly Bid the Day And Welcome in the Night Aonghus Murray
Nikita Halvey 1st Place Junior Senior Prizewinner
Short Story on a Seville Poster They are in an elegant pose, Under the blossoming tree. He has his left arm around her shoulder Gripping it tightly. Her gown is pink, And puffs out like a bed of flowers. The sky is green with passion, Like emeralds in the blazing sun. He is dressed in black and white And sings to her, His hands crimped around his castanet. He longs, in the Sevilla sunset. Jennifer Baxter Inspired by Short Story on a Painting of Gustav Klimt by Lawrence Ferlinghetti
I Hide myself from Everyone I Hide myself from Everyone Hallway Voices echo - Threats Staring, Judging, Listening To the Attention that he gets Through a Closed door of a Closet room Lit by Escaped moonlight -
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¨ WRITE A POEM ¨ WRITE A POEM ¨ WRITE A POEM ¨ Spirit melting into the sea, Moon magnetism As heavy and relentless as love, Soul ebbing, flowing, crashing, boiling, dancing. A raw, primal freedom Rushing through my veins like Adrenaline asphyxiated blood. Skin pale, ghost like, transparent, Numb and yet ultra-sensitive. Blood turned to ice, Frozen time, The feeling a reflective fascination. Heart stinging from freezer burn, I wonder if maybe this is what death is like: A semi-conscious aquatic afterlife, Floating along the darkness of eternity s tide. Then, I contradict myself and finally decide This frost bitten burning is what it is to be alive.
Senior Prizewinner Trees This is just to say I have cut down The trees That were in Your forest And which You were probably Hoping to keep For the rest of time. Please forgive me It was a great Business opportunity.
From the sea Laughing, shivering, dripping, We run back to shore. Wrap ourselves in the warmth of normality, And face our ruin once more.
Laura Bowen Modelled on This is just to say by Wm Carlos Williams
Junior Prizewinner Caelainn Hogan Lips Large, full, juicy Round, soft and luscious. Lovely lips Passport to the soul. Tara Breslin
Junior Prizewinner Universal Bathtub A thousand needles puncturing the senses: Silken blues, hot pinks, the soft grey smear of cloud. An early evening sky, Seapoint beach, Friday afternoon, Dogs, sea, sand, friends and familiarity. Underwear and saltwater skin. Innocence in the bitter cold, Beneath the waves. Friendship, childhood, happiness? Maybe. Disguised in naivety, Pretending to be carefree, Youth playing in the deepening waters. Slip into serenity. Let my feet leave the ground, Lie back in the embrace of ocean. Drifting away from the grip of modernisation, Urban depression obsession? . Contently drowning in this universal bathtub, Optic pleasures a cheap illusion to distract us From the feeling of suffocation.
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Teaching English Magazine POETRY WINNERS 2003 1st Place Senior
Senior Prizewinner
The Grocery Store in Baghdad
The Knife Come greet me, my little silver friend. Silent by name, deadly, callous by nature. So cold, clammy and calculating. Where is your slender handle that directs my fate? Rigid, ready, your lone finger protrudes - ominous Daring me to deny it! Your tip traces itself, expertly, like an accomplished dancer. Scaphoid to lamate, steel to skin. Serrations press firmer against my creamy, white flesh. Tiny, cunning indents! The thin, purple vessels bulge outwards. Are they seeking release too? Blood, life is draining away, fleeing my tortured mind. Leaving me to my nothingness. Now nothing there. Nothing Catherine Carrigy Inspired by Poppies in July by Sylvia Plath
Before the first soldier comes the panic Sharpening the air of the silent city In time for the first military invasion Today the place is as it shouldn t be, Desolate and deserted. A young boy Creeps past the American army tank, Cautiously, without a sound And the shops that were open just yesterday Are firmly shut against the rounds of ammunition Where one by one the soldiers patrol the streets And an old dog bleeds on the pavement. While I stand with my loaded gun Under a framed shrine to Saddam The owner of the grocery store Stands at his door as if his world were to crumble Watching the first tank plunge through his life - An ideogram on smoke and dust - and the Light of freedom beyond the hills of Kuwait And whistles a solemn tune, dreaming of peace. Ciara Cronin Modelled on The Chinese Restaurant in Portrush by Derek Mahon
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1st Place Junior
Faking It
Rail Road Tracks Standing on the railroad track Looking forward, looking back I saw the future and the past Frontiers, in both directions vast, And judging from my middle niche, I could not tell which way was which, Two rails each way ran off together, At equal rates approached each other, And at the horizons of both ways Dissolved in equidistant haze. Always at the widest point, Pivoting at the union joint, I faced my life, a double riddle, By turning, turning in the middle. Which way to go I had no notion, I simply put my feet in motion. And now I see, in my progression, Both past and future find expression, And each the other one entails: Not two directions, but two rails For all adventure, all unknown Each way is both, and both my own. Rhianna Stockdale
Hair appointment at 4pm excruciating grooming. High heels, short skirt and layers of lip gloss - Basic essentials for the night. The awful feeling in the pit of her stomach, She awaits the verdict of a doorman s inspection, Will she make the cut? Did the photo match? Did she act old enough? She stands powerless with one long leg exposed A desperate attempt to look sophisticated. The doorman s eyes travel up and down her figure, Taking everything in, Adding everything up. He steps away from the door She s in! Kate Daly Ni´ Bhoin
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Junior Prizewinner
Junior Prizewinner
Corporate Details
The Word Party
If I were fat and lazy, and never short of money, I d live with rich playboys at the country club, And speed glum servants up the line to the cafe´. You d gaze upon me with my pale and pudgy face, Guzzling and gulping in a five star hotel, Reading the Honour Roll. Poor young chap I d say, I used to golf with his father, Yes we have lost heavily in this last takeover. And when hostile takeover is done and small business stone dead I d waddle safely home and retire to bed.
Strong words show off their muscles, Foreign words get lost in the bustle, Sweet words sometimes hurt your tooth, Short words wear platform boots, Silly words pull silly faces, Code words have secret places, Small words get pushed in prams, Kind words are as gentle as lambs, Rude words have no manners, Long words are like silk banners, Careless words trip and fall, Swear words shouldn t be used at all, Hyphenated words say Good-bye , Hard words are never seen to cry, Sly words set tricks and traps, Loving words sit on each other s laps, Everyone s made some new word friends, Now the party s at the end.
Daniel Burke Modelled on Base Details by Siegfried Sassoon
Orla Leavey Modelled on The Word Party by Richard Edwards
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