“Winning the Foyle Young Poets of the Year changed the way I saw myself and my future. In short, it made me realise I could devote my life to the thing I loved, if I had enough determination.” Helen Mort, 2012 Judge and a former winner of the Foyle Young Poets of the Year Award
The title of this anthology, Gorgeous like a thunderstorm, is taken from ‘Reach/Throw/Wade/Row’ by Phoebe Stuckes (p. 7). Poems © the contributors 2013 Cover: James Brown, www.newdivision.com Design: Michael Sims. FYP logo: Siavash Pournouri Published by The Poetry Society, 22 Betterton Street London WC2H 9BX. Tel: 020 7420 9880 www.poetrysociety.org.uk
GORGEOUS LIKE A THUNDERSTORM Poems by the Foyle Young Poets of the Year 2012
Acknowledgements The Poetry Society is deeply grateful to the Foyle Foundation for its generous funding, which has driven the growing ambitions of this prize. We would also like to thank Bloodaxe, Faber, Picador, Seren and tall-lighthouse for their continuing support in providing book prizes for the Award, and this year we are delighted to welcome support from our new partner publishers, Macmillan Poetry, Walker Books and Puffin. We send our best wishes and gratitude to the 2012 judges, Helen Mort and Christopher Reid, who selected the work in this anthology. We welcome 2013 judges Hannah Lowe and David Morley. We would also like to thank the Southbank Centre for hosting the prize-giving ceremony, and Divine Chocolate, Paperblanks and Poems on the Underground for donating exciting prizes for our winners. We extend our thanks to the Arvon Foundation for hosting the Foyle Young Poetsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; residency with ongoing commitment and expertise. Finally, we applaud the enthusiasm and dedication of the young people and teachers who make Foyle Young Poets the great success it is today. Find us online at www.foyleyoungpoets.org and the Foyle Young Poets Facebook group
Contents Introduction Conor McKee Phoebe Stuckes Naomi Hamilton Clare Carlile Tallulah Hutson Abigail Setchfield Emily Burns Sarah Fletcher Jesse Rodrigues Sonja Moore Jessica Kelham-Hohler Flora de Falbe Phoebe Boswall Dillon Leet David Carey
4 Hemingwayâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Thirst Reach/Throw/Wade/Row The Wilderness The Everyday Hymn The Accident Reduced Minutiae Brighton Fire Knows The Frame Jim Five things about the lake: Baking Birthday Present The Apple Tree
6 8 9 10 12 14 15 16 17 18 20 21 22 24
List of commendations Enter the Foyle Young Poets of the Year Award 2013 Foyle Foundation The Poetry Society
26 28 29 30
2013 entry form
Introduction “It is a joy to see young minds and spirits using poetry as a means of revelation, for their own benefit and for ours – addressing the world as their elders are no longer equipped to do – which gives so much hope for the future.” Christopher Reid, Foyle Judge 2012 Welcome to the latest edition of the winners’ anthology of the Foyle Young Poets of the Year Award. 2012 was a record year, with submissions from a staggering 7,351 young poets from a total of 60 countries worldwide. Founded by the Poetry Society in 1998, the competition has been supported by the Foyle Foundation since 2001, and is now firmly established as the key award for young poets aged between 11 and 17 years. This anthology features poems by the top 15 Foyle Young Poets of the Year 2012, and names the 85 commended poets selected by the judges. The quality this year was, as ever, of an impressively high standard, and judges Helen Mort and Christopher Reid had their work cut out choosing the top 15 and 85 commended poets. “Judging the Foyle Young Poets of the Year competition involved tough choices,” said Mort “Many of this year’s entries were eye-catching, but the winning poems were so vivid they played tricks with the light.” All of our 100 Winners receive one year’s Youth Membership of the Poetry Society and a range of book prizes, and are celebrated at the Awards Ceremony on National Poetry Day. The top fifteen poets aged are invited to attend a week-long writing residency with the Arvon Foundation or receive a poetry residency at their school followed by distance mentoring (age dependent).
Throughout the year Foyle alumni benefit from professional development opportunities, including internships and editorial opportunities to a series of showcasing events at festivals and venues across the UK. This year, for example, weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve showcased Foyle Winners at Southbank Centre, London; Ledbury Poetry Festival, Herefordshire; Cheltenham Literature Festival, Cheltenham; Bush Theatre, London and the Poetry CafĂŠ, London. We also offer paid internships in our London office and editorial opportunities via our Young Poets Network and online YM: Poetry magazine. As the competition reaches its sixteenth year it is notable how many former winners are now shaping the landscape of contemporary poetry, winning adult awards and publishing full collections. Our new online Alumni Library celebrates the successes of these exciting new voices. The Foyle Young poets of the Year Award also incorporates a yearround programme of activity aimed at encouraging creativity and literacy in schools. Every year the scheme nurtures best practice in creative writing teaching, identifying committed Teacher Trailblazers to act as mentors and share lesson ideas. We also offer additional poet-led workshops and events to a number of Applauded schools, to reward their continuing commitment to, and enthusiasm for, the Award. Our newly relaunched Poetryclass site offers a wide range of free downloadable teaching resources, including special Foyle lesson plans based on previous winning poems. We hope that you enjoy reading the poems in this anthology and that they inspire many new young poets to enter in 2013. Happy reading!
Hemingway’s Thirst The black of its coat was oozing now like pitch and spilling along the hoof racked rills of sand. The writer sat, doped by the bloody ditch, enjoying the raw art so “very fine, yet very sad”. He knew from the moment it started this was tragedy more profound than the stage. Blood, another drink that numbed, as ribs parted for a drinking horn that removes life and age. He watched the beast strike, the man crumpling in a tragic arc till he and his spear stopped alike: a typewriter bar hitting its dock. Thirty years later it was he who would feel the buck of the bull, as the shot rampaged forth to that last flash of the matador’s cloak.
Reach/Throw/Wade/Row She is the class of crazy that inspires adoration. She stacks vices like bracelets, works herself into hysterics, Don’t give her matches she will pinch them till her fingers scorch. I know she is gorgeous like a thunderstorm, but stop trying to hold her hand. Her heart is too heavy for you to lift. Her pain is impossible, you can keep wrapping your arms around her but she’ll never stay upright. Her stares are hospital corridors, passageways hiding chaos and anguish. “No, you can’t have a cigarette.” She lost the ring that I gave her; on ardent impulse I wanted to throw her a lifebelt. A reminder that she and I are washed up on the same shore. Being with her is like seeing Alice drink the vial, watching herself become vast and destructive. I cannot keep her safe; I cannot bear to watch her fold.
The Wilderness On the verge of the lake, he stands alone without speaking or moving, his emaciated frame lost amid gorse bushes, their needles tipped with yellow buds, spines hooking onto his baggy brown coat. The landscape recedes, each mountain like the stony back of a sea monster in hibernation. Ashen clouds slide over the weakening sun, their shadows dancing across the rock face. A Westerly wind sweeps the skin of water and licks his ruddy face, forcing him to shut both eyes. As sudden raindrops ping off his coat he slowly backtracks home, following dirt tracks flanked with overgrown heather to the cabin, log fire, beer, bong, banjo, faded olive couch with deer hide blankets, and a loaded shotgun propped up beside the door.
The Everyday Hymn Small Pleasures Like opening a can, putting pressure down And pulling back the rounded metal tag, Forefinger slipped under, braced against the hiss Of hydrogen, the give of metal against the thumb And the kick as the seal passes out. Even like the low crunch as the speckled, Porcelain egg shell collides with the thick rimmed Bakerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s bowl and splits, just round the side, Into one thousand geometric shapes. Or, smaller still, the just audible shake In a personâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s voice when a laugh Is yearning to escape.
The Accident I remember sitting on my fatherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s shoulders watching the millennium fireworks from one unknown bridge or another. I remember being wrapped up in a pram with my brother, a plastic cover keeping away the rain and the deep rumbles of summer fireworks as they unleashed their burning colours and showered down their embers on those below. I remember the three of us, like musketeers, crawling inside a duvet cover and playing ant colonies. I remember climbing across the banisters when there was a knock at the door, so the unsuspecting guest would think I was an acrobat. I remember when the knock at the door was a policeman, bearing bad news,
I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t remember what happened next. I remember staring at a ceiling that wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t my own. I remember playing with the hand sanitizers, I remember the picnics in Queen Square and running along the little flower bed walls. I remember creeping up the stairs to smell your dressing gown, the smell of you. I remember Aileen, who cut me an apron of my own and took me on her ward rounds. I remember that you canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t light seven candles in a hospital room.
Reduced In remembrance of all those who lived, died and worked in Auschwitz and Birkenau
They come off the train as humans. Bloodied, muddied, sweat and tear-caked humans. I look at them, and think – I have to kill them. Animals, we’re taught, they’re just animals! Disgusting, stealing animals, But they stink of pure humanity. Hope, love, but most clearly fear. Perhaps if we break them down we’ll find the animal we can kill. Perhaps if we take their suitcases. If we leave them without a possession in the world, Without the objects that hold the memories that make them who they are. The children cry as I prise their toys from them, add them to the pile. Perhaps if we take their shoes. Brogues and boots and slippers, feet left to blister, Each of them left to walk barefoot like beasts. A mother picks up her daughter, cradles her, so her feet don’t touch the mud.
Perhaps if we take their clothes. Strip them, leave them bare, open to the world, our roaming eyes, our mockery, Replace the uniqueness of clothing with the rags of prisoners that mark them as the same. Some of them cry, some stare with fury and determination, a gaze we cannot hold. Perhaps if we shave their hair. Unsex them, leave them bald, unsightly, Cold and so uniform that from a distance each head is one and the same. A woman presses her lips to an exposed head, whispering words of beauty into the weeping girlâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s ear. Perhaps if we take their names. Make it so they have no identity, no self, Leave them as nothing but digits on a clerkâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s sheet. The numbers, branded onto their skin, become a symbol of their resilience, their strength. Perhaps if we take their food. Force them to scrabble, scavenge, dig through rot and mud, Eat mould and worms for fear of fading to nothing more than bone. An older man takes his share, and gives it to the young, choosing their life over his own. Perhaps if we turn them to ash.
Minutiae The National Geographic cover of the woman with green eyes, or the storybook wallpaper in the first floor bathroom, the waxy crayons in the boiler room and the rusted key collection on the green-matted desk, the telephone which still had a twirling, winding cord latched solidly into the wall, and you, sitting in your chair, cradling your Lapsang, bones quiet as dust, you who were once announced by fireworks on the day of your birth.
Brighton You forget you have a cold for five minutes and your long earrings seem to spin in orbits around you. The only magazine headline you can read says the “hot mess” look is in again, so you feel accomplished because your hair is unwashed, black heels dangling over your shoulder, red blisters hitting the sidewalk. You breathe heavily, in and out, from night exhaustion and vodka zing. You don’t stumble. You don’t dare. You fly: dancing into the obscurity of swaying street lamps. Because for once the mirror, the ever-present eye, is a friend that you hug too hard, leaving bruise marks you find both hilarious and mystifying the morning after.
Fire Knows Fire knows the woodâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s secrets as they hold their heated deliberations Fire knows how to warm chilled hands, chilled feet, chilled faces Fire knows how to dance and sway to the sounds of the night Fire knows how to belch and cackle exactly when you donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t want it to Last, but not least, fire knows how to die with a flourish A flame, a spark, a winking coal then cold, hard, black, silence
The Frame A photograph, still upon a white window, Gathers the curls and the smile of a girl, Strong and awakening in a plated frame. She watches, at dawn, the shining east And the sleeping form of her sister; In summer, in winter, she stays all the same. Through the starlit glass, I hear her laugh, Gentle and calm, like mine; She rides on the wind, calling my name. I keep this shrine, still on a white window, Still with a timeless expression, With her back to the west, a dying flame.
Jim The wheels got caught on the broken slabs of the drive, as they always did. And the shed we told you to pull down still remained, broken and proud. A dark place of mystery where, as toddlers, we often hid. And you, with stamping feet and a gentle chuckle, would call for us aloud. That green chair, torn and frayed, which belonged in the tip, But which you insisted was the perfect one for your lazy days, Never did leave that spot, next to the brandy for the occasional sip And the chess board for our monthly plays. The crossword lay unfinished with no answer for five down, And you, frustrated at those ignorant writers, would stand, Gazing at your garden over the sink, as you watched the man drown Your favourite petunias, head in hand. We found a plastic bag filled with pictures, curled and jaggedly cut, Tossed by the rubbish, and when Mum protested you said, “No use for them now”, as if the need equalled the desire, but They were saved, and though you claimed to know them in your head You looked at them often, and smiled at the times when There were fields and sheep behind the house, and folk Would gossip over fences, and like a ‘clucking hen’ Mrs Herbert would tell you of her new plumbing bloke.
And when the sun hit that point where you could rest On the greying plastic seat and think on those times When you were marching through Burma, at your best, You were content. Pleased to be out of the mines And outside, with family. With time to spare, With the odd pint, with the sense that times were good, And that there remained that old, green, fading chair To keep you happy, as it should.
Flora de Falbe
Five things about the lake: 1. The lake is no slave to fashion, but she is proud of her frothy skirt of trees. Her dark, svelte figure. 2. She doesn’t want to talk. The air rushes over her, whistling how have you been? – and she responds with a glassy stare. 3. The lake raises an eyebrow when she is speckled with rain. She doesn’t do anything else but the rain takes the hint. 4. When the lake picks out her foliage she does so with impeccable taste. Even the fallen leaves have agreed on a colour scheme. 5. The lake enjoys being looked at (though she wouldn’t admit it). She likes that I’m writing this.
Baking Smells of baking remind me of you. Your red apron, my small striped one with the torn pocket. Your soft stretched skin, fingers kneading dough into a ball. My fat floury hands grasped for your amber necklace, Quick, Phoebe, the oven! You played with flavours, made little blobs of buttery dough on the tray. Your warm kitchen, my safe haven. You taught me your language: bicarbonate of soda, self-raising flour, vanilla extract, millilitres of milk, grams of sugar: caster, muscovado, granulated. Now your apron hangs empty on the peg. I wear it from time to time; mine with the torn pocket doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t fit anymore.
Birthday Present It was a gift for an international girl; a book of hard-hitting photographs on glossy paper. Something to leave about to complement her framed intellect. She presses pansies between the pages, for the thank-you card. One night she examines it by phone-light, nestled under the duvet her grandmother made when she was ten. A distraction from the rainstorm that howls behind the curtains, rattling her Victorian window panes. She traces the face of a Ukrainian man, pressed up against floral wallpaper by masked boys in khaki. Dim light dissolves pagesâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; edges until eyes drip onto cotton sheets, splattering shadows across her fingers.
Red veins scar streets by mud-brick sick houses cracked glass reflecting pixelated screams in high definition magazines. She turns the page. The book hides under her jewellery box as she wraps herself in blankets, an international girl hyperextended. She chooses another book; a well-worn fairytale, and dreams herself to sleep. Outside, the rain falls.
The Apple Tree You told me once that growing up was like walking up a downwards escalator. I think I was too young to understand back then: I thought of time as a steadily growing tree that I hadn’t yet started climbing. I remember playing hide-and-seek; climbing up thin branches, or crouching in the undergrowth. Once, you saw my head peeking out from the apple tree. You said that soon, I’d always be looking down at you like that; that time passed too quickly. I think I grew younger as you spoke, worried that my youth might fall from me as I climbed back down to you; or that time would wrest it from my shoulders as I grew. You took a long time to convince me to come down: I wanted to live there in the tree forever. I’ve never stopped climbing trees. I know now that youth doesn’t leave: you told me that we grow down while we grow up, always climbing that little bit further from ourselves; you said growth isn’t as linear as it looks. And nor is time.
I remember a time, much later on, when we were at home, the trees exchanging pleasantries in the wind, the air growing steadily colder. The night was young, and so we continued to climb through conversations. We were standing down by the pond, and the world was upside down when we looked at it in there. It was some time before we went inside: we talked of how I would climb up the trunk of the apple tree when I was young; it was as though you thought I was now fully grown. You were quiet down there, for a time, While I told you that I was still young; that however much I grew I'd always come back and climb the apple tree.
Foyle Young Poets of the Year 2012 Congratulations to the commended poets Amy Aron-Muellbauer, Theo Ayres, Isis Barrett-Lally, Zoe Boland, Catriona Bolt, Vivienne Burgess, Matthew Burson, Grace Campbell, Imogen Cassels, Jamie Chiavetta-Ellis, Imogen Childs, Nicholas Chng, Maria Chung, Mary Anne Clark, Kathryn Cussons, Jade Cuttle, Ellie Czyzowska, Ashmita Das, Joseph Davison-Duddles, Ella Duffy, Savanna Forbes, Isaac Freeth, Laurah Furner, Georgina Galton, Poppy Garrett, Tabitha Goedkoop, Roshni Gohil, Alex Greenberg, Dualtagh Grundy, Stephanie Guo, Armaghan Hallajian, Dominic Hand, Laura Hankins, Madelaine Hanson, Andrew Harrison, Alex Hartley, Maisie Higgins, Catherine Hodgson, William Holdsworth, Eloise Hood, Zhou Huiwen, Joshua James, Maria Ji, Michelle Jia, Ronlee Korren, Peter LaBerge, Anna Leader, Ephraim Levinson, Rachel Lewis, Allison Light, Maya Little, Yasmin Mannan, Ruby Mason, Cassandra McElligott, Joanna Middlemass, Aithne Moran, Oli Morris, Aoife Murphy, Eira Murphy, Matthew Norman, Jessica Ockenden, Sam Oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;Connor, Eloise Poole, Laura Potts, Laura Purcell, Nicola Purslow, Saga Ringmar, Gabriella Roberts, Gussie Roc, Amanda Silberling, Jasmine Simms, Ocho Simon, Eleanor Smith, Hayden Stamy, Natalie Steinhouse, Claudia Taylor, William Tidy, Jamie Uy, AndrĂŠs Vaamonde, Sylvia Villa, Molly Wakeman, Emma Warburton, Catherine Wong, Emma Woodhall, William Yates. For a wealth of ideas on where to go next with your poetry, visit www.youngpoetsnetwork.org.uk
â&#x20AC;&#x153;We eagerly await the publication of the anthology of Foyle winners, as it provides tangible and fascinating proof that it is possible for young writers to be recognised for their work.â&#x20AC;? Ashley Smith, Teacher Trailblazer, Cambridge
Enter the Foyle Young Poets Award 2013 JUDGES: HANNAH LOWE & DAVID MORLEY Any writer between the ages of 11 and 17 (inclusive) on the closing date of 31 July 2013 can enter the Foyle Young Poets of the Year Award 2013. The competition is free to enter and poems can be of any length. Individuals may enter more than one poem. We strongly advise that you concentrate on drafting and redrafting your poems. Remember, quality is more important than quantity. Competition entries cannot be returned under any circumstances so please make sure you keep copies. Due to the large number of entries we receive, we are unable to respond to entrants individually. You can enter online at www.foyleyoungpoets.org, or photocopy the entry form on the inside back cover and send it, with your poems, to: FYP 2013, The Poetry Society, 22 Betterton Street, London WC2H 9BX. Please mark the back of each poem with the entrantâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s name and postcode. Teachers can request class set entry forms (to enter whole classes of poems) and free resources (Foyle anthologies, promotional posters and special Foyle lesson plans) by emailing email@example.com Prizes include a week-long residential writing course at one of the prestigious Arvon Centres, poet visits to schools, Youth Membership of the Poetry Society and an invitation to the exciting prize-giving ceremony in London. There are also special book prizes for schools generating the greatest number of entries to the competition, presented by our partner publishers. The top 15 poems will be printed in an anthology, just like the one youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re holding right now, and sent to schools, libraries and poets right across the UK and beyond. To enter online, and for some hints and tips on writing a winning poem, go to: www.foyleyoungpoets.org 28
Foyle Foundation â&#x20AC;&#x153;The Foyle Foundation and the Poetry Society have been on an amazing journey over the last eight years in developing The Foyle Young Poets. During this time the scheme has grown to become a major programme and literary award attracting thousands more applicants as we have pioneered new ways of targeting and reaching young people and schools.â&#x20AC;? David Hall, Chief Executive, The Foyle Foundation The Foyle Foundation is an independent grant making trust supporting UK charities which, since its formation in 2001, has become a major funder of the arts and learning. The Foyle Foundation has invested in the Foyle Young Poets of the Year Award since 2001, one of its longest partnerships. During this time it has trebled its support, and enabled the competition to develop and grow to become one of the premier literary awards in the country. www.foylefoundation.org.uk
The Poetry Society The Poetry Society is Britain’s leading voice for poets and poetry. Founded in 1909 to promote “a more general recognition and appreciation of poetry”, the Society is now one of the country’s most dynamic arts organisations, with around 4,000 members around the world; and is the publisher of the leading poetry magazine, Poetry Review. With innovative education and commissioning programmes, and a packed calendar of performances, readings and competitions, the Poetry Society champions poetry for all ages. As well as the Foyle Young Poets of the Year Award, the Poetry Society offers lots of other opportunities for young writers: Young Poets Network: If you’re an emerging poet, an avid reader, an enthusiastic performer, or just starting out in poetry, our new online community has something for you. The Young Poets Network website offers advice on everything from keeping a notebook, to organising your own gig. All year round, top poets set exciting challenges to help you flex your writing muscles; offer feedback; and share their reading tips. Read new work by other young poets, get help understanding poetry terms, trade your comments, and listen to poets such as Benjamin Zephaniah, Jo Shapcott and Daljit Nagra. There are also a range of features from former Foyle winners such as Helen Mort, Swithun Cooper, Hattie Grunewald and Caleb Klaces. It’s all totally free. For exclusive advance information on new opportunities, join up at www.youngpoetsnetwork.org.uk and ‘like’ Young Poets Network on Facebook.
SLAMbassadors UK is the Poetry Society’s national spoken word competition for young people, and has showcased some of the best up and coming performance poets the UK has to offer. SLAMbassadors is open to 12-18 year olds, and has featured highprofile judges and mentors such as Linton Kwesi Johnson, Dizraeli and Scroobius Pip. Prizes include a masterclass weekend at the Poetry Society with Slam Champion Joelle Taylor and a live performance at a prestigious London venue. Workshops are available to schools and youth groups. To learn more visit http://slam.poetrysociety.org.uk/ Poetry Society Youth Membership is open to anyone aged 11-18, costs £15 per year and offers the opportunity to submit to YM: Poetry, our online magazine (www.ympoetry.org), which is edited by former Foyle winners. Members receive free books and posters, Poetry Society magazine Poetry News and an information pack for young writers. All 100 winners of the Foyle Young Poets of the Year Award receive a year’s free membership as part of their prize. School Membership and Poets in Schools: School members receive books, magazines and resources such as Poems on the Underground posters. All member schools receive a free Poets in Schools consultancy service – expert guidance on organising poet visits or Poetryclass Inset sessions. Specially tailored lesson plans, longer term poet residencies and poet-led showcase events can also be arranged. The Poets in Schools consultancy service is also available to non-member schools for a small fee. Visit the Poetry Society shop to see our exciting range of poetry posters and more. For details about all of our projects, visit www.poetrysociety.org.uk/content/education or email firstname.lastname@example.org
"This journey has been transforming and surreal. I would encourage all young writers to submit to this competition while the chance still remains.â&#x20AC;? Sara Henry, Foyle Young Poet of the Year 2010
Foyle Young Poets of the Year Award 2013 INDIVIDUALS: use this form or enter online at www.foyleyoungpoets.org TEACHERS: to submit multiple entries, use a Class Set Entry Form
Name __________________________________________________________________________ Address _______________________________________________________________________ __________________________________________________________________________________ Postcode ________________________ Country ______________________________ Your school __________________________________________________________________ Your tel MOBILE PREFERRED ____________________________________________________ Your email
Number of poems submitted__________________________________________________________________ Date of birth _____________________________ Gender Ethnic background
The Foyle Young Poets of the Year Award 2013, judged by Hannah Lowe and David Morley, is open to writers between the ages of 11 and 17 years (inclusive) before the closing date of 31 July 2013. Poets can enter more than one poem, of any length and on any theme. Competition entries cannot be returned under any circumstances so please make sure you keep copies. Please write the entrantâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s name and postcode on the reverse of each poem submitted. Please photocopy, complete and return this entry form and send it, with your poems, to: FYP 2013, The Poetry Society, 22 Betterton Street, London WC2H 9BX OR enter online at www.foyleyoungpoets.org The Poetry Society has created a FREE online community to keep you updated with opportunities for young writers. If you do NOT wish to join the Young Poets Network, please tick here
available at www.foyleyoungpoets.org or email@example.com
The Poetry Society presents poems by the Foyle Young Poets of the Year 2012, selected by Helen Mort and Christopher Reid