The Waltraud Field International Celebration Poetry Competition 2024
We are delighted to announce the winners of this year's competition! They are as follows:
1st prize: "Fellowship Wednesdays" by Roger Elkin
2nd prize: "Swimming with Humans" by Phil Williams
3rd prize: "Adventures in Babysitting" by Nell Farrell.
1st prize: "Fellowship Wednesdays" by Roger Elkin
2nd prize: "Swimming with Humans" by Phil Williams
3rd prize: "Adventures in Babysitting" by Nell Farrell.
Poems that also made it to the shortlist are:
"Clouds, Oregon" by Bert Molson, "Being Silver" by Moira Lazarus,
"By Chance" by Mandy Pannett, "Attic Flat,Nantwich Road"
by Simon Harrison, "Lost Voices" by Lesley Stokoe,
"The Important Email" by Timothy Woodhead & "Hospital" by Jo Hillman.
"Clouds, Oregon" by Bert Molson, "Being Silver" by Moira Lazarus,
"By Chance" by Mandy Pannett, "Attic Flat,Nantwich Road"
by Simon Harrison, "Lost Voices" by Lesley Stokoe,
"The Important Email" by Timothy Woodhead & "Hospital" by Jo Hillman.
Fellowship Wednesdays
and Mum's special eventings
with that ring of local notables - the Elsies, Florries,
Cissies, Cynthias, Ednas, Wyns - flat-brogued,
hat-wreathed, and frocks button-throughed
so busily-similar. Their sensible coats.
How they'd welcomed her
in their moist-eyed glance, as flashing their granite face
straight-lacing with axes for looks that would slice
the smiles off kids.
Mum prided herself at the way
she'd gained favour, scaling their battlements
from stranger, through trailing collection-plate,
piano-playing, hymn-fixing to homily-giving,
even guesting. Now they fed on her words.
Her flip-books filled with spidery writing.
Yes, for certain, this Fellowship-women-thing
outstripped church with its po-faced blokes,
holy-ghosting down the naves.
For one, there was never any questioning
about her cough-cum-splutters or voice put on mute
during the Creed's rituals of Virgin Birth,
through to the piece about rose from the dead;
and secondly, they never held Communion,
so there wasn't the lottery of sing, the I.O.U. of guilt,
the eating flesh, drinking blood.
She
was relieved she didn't need to accommodate
imagining all that pain.
Besides which, she'd never been sold
on the resurrection of the flesh.
Ask Dad, her long-dead God.
and Mum's special eventings
with that ring of local notables - the Elsies, Florries,
Cissies, Cynthias, Ednas, Wyns - flat-brogued,
hat-wreathed, and frocks button-throughed
so busily-similar. Their sensible coats.
How they'd welcomed her
in their moist-eyed glance, as flashing their granite face
straight-lacing with axes for looks that would slice
the smiles off kids.
Mum prided herself at the way
she'd gained favour, scaling their battlements
from stranger, through trailing collection-plate,
piano-playing, hymn-fixing to homily-giving,
even guesting. Now they fed on her words.
Her flip-books filled with spidery writing.
Yes, for certain, this Fellowship-women-thing
outstripped church with its po-faced blokes,
holy-ghosting down the naves.
For one, there was never any questioning
about her cough-cum-splutters or voice put on mute
during the Creed's rituals of Virgin Birth,
through to the piece about rose from the dead;
and secondly, they never held Communion,
so there wasn't the lottery of sing, the I.O.U. of guilt,
the eating flesh, drinking blood.
She
was relieved she didn't need to accommodate
imagining all that pain.
Besides which, she'd never been sold
on the resurrection of the flesh.
Ask Dad, her long-dead God.
Swimming with Humans
We think they like our smile
The way we sport and swim
more fluidly than them.
Down they come - that same
matt-glint across an eyeless face,
with sleek shark-skin hood,
webbed and flippered fins,
bubbled breath which rises to the light.
They plunge, splay, pulse then arch
towards us to pat and play,
responsive to our nudges if not
our calls and clicks. They cannot sing
but grasp and clasp -
that's what intrigues us most -
their star-fish grasp, the way
they clutch and cling and handle things.
Blunt and whirring shadows bring them,
and down they plop to pull their way
towards us, speechless, useless
for anything but entertainment.
And when we tire of them and they of us,
they seek light and shelter in their floating hulls.
We dip and dance before them through their spray.
We think they like our smile
The way we sport and swim
more fluidly than them.
Down they come - that same
matt-glint across an eyeless face,
with sleek shark-skin hood,
webbed and flippered fins,
bubbled breath which rises to the light.
They plunge, splay, pulse then arch
towards us to pat and play,
responsive to our nudges if not
our calls and clicks. They cannot sing
but grasp and clasp -
that's what intrigues us most -
their star-fish grasp, the way
they clutch and cling and handle things.
Blunt and whirring shadows bring them,
and down they plop to pull their way
towards us, speechless, useless
for anything but entertainment.
And when we tire of them and they of us,
they seek light and shelter in their floating hulls.
We dip and dance before them through their spray.
Adventures in Babysitting
They always left me a bag of Walkers crisps,
a glass of lemonade and their two crazy dogs
locked in the kitchen.
All my thirteen year-old Friday nights
shut up with a three year old I hardly knew,
who never woke or needed me.
No books or records to rummage
just some porn mags stuffed
under the settee cushions.
They always left me a bag of Walkers crisps,
a glass of lemonade and their two crazy dogs
locked in the kitchen.
All my thirteen year-old Friday nights
shut up with a three year old I hardly knew,
who never woke or needed me.
No books or records to rummage
just some porn mags stuffed
under the settee cushions.
One night, bored, I opened
the serving hatch, squeezed through
and slid my bum across the worktop
to the ornate biscuit tin, which held
a promise of chocolate fingers
or a ginger cake. Below me
the staffies pirouetted
in a frenzy, claws
clattering the lino.
the serving hatch, squeezed through
and slid my bum across the worktop
to the ornate biscuit tin, which held
a promise of chocolate fingers
or a ginger cake. Below me
the staffies pirouetted
in a frenzy, claws
clattering the lino.
Back through the bubbled glass,
purloined casket
clasped against my chest,
the barking stopped
the child slept on,
I lifted the lid
on a tomb of mouldy crumbs,
a softening jammy dodger
and the corrugated remains of two fig rolls.
purloined casket
clasped against my chest,
the barking stopped
the child slept on,
I lifted the lid
on a tomb of mouldy crumbs,
a softening jammy dodger
and the corrugated remains of two fig rolls.