Shortlist Update

Poetry Competition Shortlist

A massive thanks to everyone who entered the poetry competition and for your kind donations to Maggie’s Centre too.

Also, a big thanks to the judges who have now shortlisted the poems – we really appreciate your time and efforts as there have been almost 300 to chose from! There were so many excellent entries and it has proven to be a very tough task indeed.

The final stage of judging is taking place and we hope to make an announcement about the winner and runners up very soon.

The shortlist is as follows:

When Sleep Descends – Daniel Brady

https://voices.poetry.blog/2019/03/23/when-sleep-descends-daniel-brady/

My Role Model – Julie Shackman

https://voices.poetry.blog/2019/09/30/my-role-model-julie-shackman/

Sunflowers – Rebecca Swan

https://voices.poetry.blog/2019/07/30/sunflowers-rebecca-swan/

Carnival – Alison Faye

https://voices.poetry.blog/2019/08/29/carnival-alyson-faye/

We Are Blind – Caoillin Hughes

https://voices.poetry.blog/2019/08/30/we-are-blind-caoilinn-hughes/

Come Home to the Hearth – Judith Bristow

https://voices.poetry.blog/2019/08/30/come-home-to-the-hearth-judith-bristow/

The Way it Used to be – Bernie Bickerton

https://voices.poetry.blog/2019/05/11/the-way-it-used-to-be-bernie-bickerton/

Darkening Winter Day – Sue Gerrard

https://voices.poetry.blog/2019/09/30/darkening-winter-day-sue-gerrard/

When T Meets B – Erin Keeble

https://voices.poetry.blog/2019/05/14/when-t-meets-b-erin-keeble/

Keep on Fighting – Claire Gee

https://voices.poetry.blog/2019/09/30/keep-on-fighting-claire-gee/

Silent Voice – Neelam Shah

https://voices.poetry.blog/2019/08/08/silent-voice-neelam-shah/

I am Me – David A Stansfield

https://voices.poetry.blog/2019/10/01/i-am-me-david-a-stansfield/

We are sure you will enjoy reading these excellent poems and the panel now has the task of selecting the winner (who will receive a £100 prize in book tokens) and two runners up (who will receive £50 prizes in book tokens respectively). 😊 📚 🖊

Echoing – Kirsty A. Niven

each gasp is magnified

Kirsty A. Niven lives in Dundee, Scotland. Her writing has appeared in anthologies such as Strength, The Alien Buddha’s Feminist Agenda and Landfall. She has also featured in several journals and magazines, including The Poet’s Republic, Cicada Magazine, Monstrous Regiment and Silk + Smoke. Kirsty’s work can also be found online on sites such as La Scrittrice, Anti-Heroin Chic and Poetry Breakfast.

Echoing

In the echoing of this house,

each gasp is magnified –

an extorted thrill you relish.

A Rabelais twinkle in your eye,

a mischief you cannot keep in.

Each incorrigible kiss in this chaos

vibrates through every bone;

sliding skin buzzing like bees,

an Eros earthquake in my knees.

The bed barely holds me up,

melting under your liquid touch –

I am honey in your hands, nectar

dripping through your intrepid fingers.

Your teeth graze my shoulder,

a blissful sting, exultation with wings.

In the echoing of this house,

mirroring smiles say what we can’t

in a silence we won’t shatter.

Kirsty A Niven

Did you enjoy this poem? Why not visit Maggie’s website at: Maggie’s Centre Nottingham to find out more about their exceptional work and/or make a donation. Do you have a poem you would like to submit to Voices? Feel free to do so by email at: voicespoetry@outlook.com or via the ‘Contact’ page on this site.

Sun’s Arouse – Iynisha Johnson

Sun looks at the clouds like why so gray

My name is Iynisha Johnson. I’m 21 years old and I’ve been writing poems since I was 10. I love poetry and how you can put life into pages.

Sun’s Arouse

Stop just look at the sky above

Do the sun show the clouds some love

Is there hatred where the sky’s should meet

Or do they look at each other smile or speak

When the sky turns gray do the sun start to hate

Or does he go on with life knowing he’ll be straight

When the sun comes out do the clouds get mad

Or do he wait his turn cause he’s got his chance

Do they interact since there so close

Or do the clouds get angry once the suns arose

Sun looks at the clouds like why so gray

Can I have my time so kids can play

Clouds answer with a shower of storm

I am the side of the sky that’s torn

Iynisha Johnson

Self-Destruction Button – Megan Ponton

Happiness terrifies me

My name is Megan Ponton, I am 24 years old from Glasgow and currently work in retail. I discovered a love of words but especially poetry a short while ago and while I am still learning about it. I feel my writing is honesty and from the heart and we as a society, should never forget the importance words can have on a person and the wider community.

Self – Destruction Button

by Megan Ponton

Happiness is a strange thing

The more you have it

The more you crave it

Like a smoker,

Desperately craving that first cigarette in the morning

Happiness terrifies me

In the past

It has been there in fleeting bursts

Rather than continued spells

Happiness is a great feeling

Yet

You always feel that you are one wrong move

From it all going belly-up

And

As a result

Hitting that self-destruct button

Almost feels like a comfort blanket

In a twisted sort of way

Trying to make sense of it all

Megan Ponton

Some People – Haris Ahmed

he decided enough was enough

some people

some people

are in need

of anything

–

but love

their houses a mess

–

their phones

have history

of dodgy premium rate numbers

–

cheapened briefly

by calls from their mothers

–

the girl on the phone says

she’s 24 and

would walk in his back door

if she didn’t have to chat

to all the other men

drinking desperados through

–

a straw

man

–

never to be seen again

reads the article

–

man

never to be seen again?

–

hung himself using a belt

his ex wife gifted him to wear

–

only for his kid to wear

the stretch marks for him

–

the man outgrew the belt

fattened up like a farmer’s mancalf

ready for slaughter

–

somewhere between mcdonald’s

and pubs that weren’t actually pubs

–

he decided enough was enough

–

some people

says the woman on the train

peering up from her paper

at some poor manchild

clipping his kid’s ears

Haris Ahmed

The Life of a Leaf – Leon Arthur Podolak Perry

Summer sees them fully alive

Leon Arthur Podolak Perry just turned ten on September 22nd. He wrote this poem two years ago and since then he has been a regular poem writer. His mum thought she would share Leon’s work with us – thank you.

The Life of a Leaf

Spring see the scene of leaf growth.

Summer sees them fully alive.

Autumn leaves die in glory, not in pain not in agony but in glory.

Winter carries their dead souls but follows through with new life.

Leon Arthur Podolak Perry

Trees – Henry Wilkink

You can watch them learn and grow

Thank you to Henry Wilkink for his contribution to Voices. We are sure you will enjoy Henry’s work.

Trees

Trees are like children,

You can watch them learn and grow,

You build up love with them,

Just to watch them go,

The age grows and so do you,

You invest so much time with it,

Never moving, still as a statue,

Your time has come,

Your cottage is empty,

Your body goes numb,

You hope that your garden will keep,

You try to hold back the death phantom,

As you your mind goes into an eternal sleep.

–

You watch down on your tree,

You see the fire coming,

It is the most horrific sight you see,

You realise what is going to happen and you cry,

You feel depressed as you watch your tree die.

Henry Wilkink, aged 12

Up the Portuguese Steps – Lucy

The pain doesn’t last, just keep climbing you’re nearly there

Many thanks to Lucy Staveley for her entry. The poem is about a very long journey up a staircase whilst on holiday. Lucy has recently started to create poems and finds this to be an excellent way to express herself. Thank you for your support Lucy.

Up the Portuguese Steps

Breathe

Take a step, hold your breath, it’s okay, you can do this

Breathe

Don’t worry, it gets easier. By the time you’re at the top, it won’t hurt anymore

Breathe

You’ll get through this, you’re a fighter, besides you wouldn’t want to make a fuss

Breathe

Honey I know it hurts but swallow, the lump in your throat will subside

Breathe

They didn’t mean it, they couldn’t have. No one would ever do that to their own family; daring they didn’t know

Breathe

The pain doesn’t last, just keep climbing you’re nearly there

Breathe

I know you’re supposed to be in paradise but the sun and the sea can’t take this away

Breathe

Oh baby I can see the top now, you can do it

Breathe, and smile. Return to normal. Those tears must stay frozen. They can never fall.

Breathe.

Lucy Staveley

Sirens and Fireworks – Jessica Williams

Memories are made in real life not on I cloud

I am a single mother from southeast London and my escapism has always been literature wether it be reading it or creating it it’s always been therapeutic and cathartic to me. Most of my pieces are biographical and based on my real life.

Sirens and fireworks

Sirens and fire works

I’m just sitting here hoping my lighter works

Wondering what will stop hurting first

My head or my heart

Even if I wanted to tell you where would I start

Making the best of what’s rest of me

After life has tested me

One too many times

My only solace in these Rhymes

Cause I’ve seen so much my eyes don’t work rose coloured glasses

Highlighting every perk

But when the lenses crack there’s no looking back

Can’t try to make it work

I can’t ve the technician in my current position

Cause my candles gone out at both ends

No matter where I go I always come back to my old ends

And no matter how many people I try to show a glimmer of me fail to see

So I tend to stick to my old friend

But even sometimes they seem to fail

To even the scale and put in the work where it need be

But when a favours required there never to tired

To make sure they let me know they need me

But when I was hungry you didn’t feed me

And called me out on being needy

Thought you were good fruit

But you were rotten from the root

And what you flowered was way too seedy

But your gardens so groomed

And your neighbours was not

So therefore the decay spread

And while you were picking their fruits and planting your own

You didn’t realise there main plant was dead

No good soil to bury my head

Few good ears to hear what I said

And I saw how you cooked with my dirt on your heart

So no thanks I don’t want your bread

Weeds in your ears can’t you hear what I said

I didn’t ask you to groom me prune me and clip

To watch me and judge me

There to remind me I’ve slipped

So sometimes I dip

To a place all my own

A place I’ve preserved in my in another zone

Where not a tablet or phone is allowed

Memories are made in real life not on I cloud

Where saying your proud is not an emoji

I don’t need your feel well soon I just need you to hold me

I don’t need you’ll get over it I just need you to fold me feel me and console me

And keep me with all the things your consider holy

Cause it’s never your job to fix it although I’m happy you’ve tried

Sorry if along the way part of you died

But our pictures been painted

And I tried not to taint it

Although I might have just stained it

While we did I happy we maintained it

Cause old scars healed I’m sorry if i made new ones

I’d refer you to a friend if I really knew one

But I can sit in

Cause I don’t fit in

But from my broken pieces a mosaic begins

Jessica Williams, London

Nocturne – Anthony Watts

Perfection buried its head in the full moon

Anthony Watts has been writing ‘seriously’ for over 40 years. He has won prizes and had poems published in magazines and anthologies. His latest collection is Stiles https://www.paekakarikipress.com/?content=publications.php . Anthony’s main interests are poetry, music and walking.

Nocturne

Birdlike, with busy beaks,

Two voices made a nest in the telephone –

Pointing and smoothing far into the night –

A nest of words to hatch perfection in.

With an effortless compulsion, this labour of love

Carried them out beyond tiredness and midnight,

Interweaving anxious threads of guilt

With reassurances of secrecy,

Slicking down tufts of doubt. . . yet still

–

The nest, all littered with ifs and buts, remained

Untenanted, the cuckoo would not come.

Perfection buried its head in the full moon,

Whose stubborn penny would not drop but simply

Continued to charm her curtains and to gild his kiosk

And as their purchased seconds clocked up a bill,

Neither would be the last to say goodnight

Or the first to hang up, so loath were they to abandon

A job half-done – though it would never be done.

–

Now they have forgotten whose hand it was,

Replacing the receiver like a lid –

But gently, gently on the woven nest –

Restored the night to silence, nor recall

To whom the dialling-tone’s unbroken purr,

Recloseted abruptly in its niche,

Told of the waveless ether’s self-content –

Untroubled by intercourse of human hearts

Or fret of words like starlings on the wire.

Anthony Watts, Taunton