| June 2008
Judge's Comments: Ruth
Strachan
Having no bias towards different poetic styles, I find it
a pleasure that this year's major awards are of an entirely different
style than those of last year. Although I prefer alliteration to be
quite subtle, in all the major placed entries I thought it appropriate
and used to advantage.
Men of Skins has gained first place. It is
unusual for me to award this to a poem of rhythm and rhyme, but in this
instance they are so finely achieved, incorporate variation, and suit
the subject so well, I am won over. The title immediately takes the
reader's attention, and interest is maintained as the story is told. The
subject is unusual and dramatic, but carries the mark of reality. A
poem to move the reader.
Second place goes to My Grandmother's Hand. This is
a poignant poem, progressing from 'Maggie's hand holds mine' to
'Maggie's hand goes cold in mine.' Much falls between the two, as
memories of the past mingle with the present. Sounds and thoughts echo
throughout, while phrases like 'for comfort, for hope, for help' and
'our family, our hopes, our dreams', work well.
There are two Very Highly Commended this time, either of
which could have won under another judge.
Velvet Jack has beautiful cadences in it when read aloud. Sounds
of the bird's movements are heard in the words - 'swish-poke
scratch-claw', 'flit fly', and 'flutter'. The rhyming is moderate and
very effective. The poem is both thoughtful and thought arousing.
In Torrential Driving Rain the play on words
catches the reader's attention. Not only is the weather theme a
metaphor for the mood of the main character, but 'driving' applies to
more than the rain! The pattern of the poem, its internal rhyming, and
the atmosphere created of tension, hope and disappointment, are all well
done.
Congratulations to all concerned!
Ruth Strachan
Results
Copyright for all work remains with the
author
First Place:-
Men of Skins by Max
Merckenschlager S.A.
MEN
OF SKINS
Follow footprints to a native as she
cockles round the bay,
crossing tracks of other callers that the tides will rinse away.
Off the coast you see an island rising ominously near;
Karta1 looms with manly menace on a morning
crisp and clear.
Low the Ngarrindjeri2 whistles as she draws
a nervous breath,
then she trembles for her sisters on that silent isle of death …
for those snatched and taken gins,
now controlled by men of skins.
Sense the hidden gang of sealers in a
cavern by the cape;
they are biding for the moment and their minds are set on rape.
Feel the hopelessness of struggle when they pass around the
prize,
and the anguish of their captive as she fights to break her
ties.
Block your ears and cast your vision while the sealers laugh and
gloat,
as they pull for home on Karta with the bundle in their boat …
for the quarry seldom wins,
in a match with men of skins.
Count the days beyond encounter and the
loved beyond her reach,
and sacks she's hauled to salt the hides she's pegged along the
beach.
Count snares she's set for wallabies and plunging dives for
shell;
add yearnings for a motherland in sight across the swell.
And tally tears of pity for the infant on her breast,
who'll never know his heritage nor undergo the test …
then a hatching plan begins,
to be done with men of skins.
Glimpse a canvas-covered dinghy under
stunted coastal heath,
and wooden oars in rowlocks she has spirited beneath.
Slip camp in silver moonlight with a heartbeat like a drum,
past sprawling men besotted, belching fumes of traded rum.
Share the shock when she discovers that the means for her escape
holds a pair of Kaurna3 women rowing
strongly for the cape …
now she'll gamble on the fins;
better those than men of skins.
Press the baby to her bosom for their
final warm embrace;
strap it firmly over shoulders that will stroke to join their
race.
Ride the rip out past the breakers like a black and bobbing
cork;
there are leagues ahead to cover in unfathomed, sapping work.
Feel those inky waters crashing on her infant's frozen head,
while her muddled mind is numbing, for she knows
the child is dead …
and her sense-of-purpose spins,
giving ground to men of skins.
Hear the cursing oaths of sealers in
the sober light of day,
as they scan a heaving ocean for the gins that stole away:
two have beached upon the mainland, where a third with child
lies spent;
carved and carted by the dumpers, and a shark patrols the scent.
Watch her body, limp and shattered, ebb its life-force on the
shore;
till her shackles drop discarded, and a pair of spirits soar …
while below, their faintest grins
taunt the savage men of skins.
Information to assist
reading
1Karta
– “place of the dead”; an island in South Australia unoccupied
by Aborigines for several thousand years, known today as
'Kangaroo Island'.
2Ngarrindjeri
(pronounced "nurrind-jerry" ); a nation of Australian Aborigines
living in the lower River Murray, Coorong and Fleurieu districts
of South Australia.
3Kaurna
(pronounced "garner"); a nation of Australian Aborigines from
the Adelaide Plains, Hills and Fleurieu districts of South
Australia.
~~~
|
Second Place:-
My Grandmother's Hand by Joan Fenney S.A.
My Grandmother’s Hand
Maggie’s hand holds mine,
shares memories, holds secrets
she does not speak of. Her hands
have held love. Have felt pain.
She once told me life begins
and ends with a touch..
I
watch her sleep, her hands soft
and warm are lined. Simple lines
that map the contours of her life.
How small she looks. The tubes
surround her, conspire to overwhelm
her, steal her freedom.
A
long time ago when pneumonia crept
into my lungs, Maggie stayed with me.
Till my fever broke, till it seeped
from my skin and soaked
through the covers,
overflowing in the darkness.
When
I woke I saw her tears, silently
creeping down her face. I thought
I heard her praying to a god
she rarely spoke of. Now I pray
to the same god, with head bowed,
for comfort, for hope, for help.
I sit
with her, telling her stories,
of our family, our hopes, our dreams.
I hold her brown bag tightly,
containing fragments of her life –
her wedding certificate, her husband’s
gold tooth, photos, an old dictionary,
her silver knitting needles.
Her
eyes beckon me,
she cannot speak. I listen
as she struggles for breath,
I move closer and hold her hand.
And
now as night overtakes us,
Maggie’s hand goes cold in mine.
~~~ |
Very Highly Commended:-
Velvet Jack by Miles Trench S.A.
|
Velvet Jack
And who might you be
my velvet Jack,
coat all black,
head-bobbing back?
Death bringer, song singer,
scourge
to sly-hidden things;
things without wings.
Swish-poke scratch-claw,
neb tangerine,
aporetic nods
to blue-sky God.
Flit-fly to broken branch;
there to rest, acacia-throne nest,
postured pose rejecting
claims of lesser beings below.
Oh, Prince of Gobble puff-chest,
cast your throaty shrill account
all the summer days.
Cry-out,
my keen-eyed cock,
all flutter and hop, ‘till
black-plumed night
comes still your dance;
while I watch.
And you strut.
While I hobble
and you strut.
~~
|
Very Highly Commended:-
Torrential Driving Rain by Jacqui Merckenschlager
S.A.
|
TORRENTIAL DRIVING RAIN
Can't you feel in my silence a storm
cloud ...
Billowing gray ... threatening display ...
Tumbling with chained energy?
Won't you read in my eyes, for I'm too
proud;
Woman erect ... weakness detect ...
Begging a break in the storm?
Don't you stare down the road with
your ice mind,
Warming-sun shielding, cold and unyielding -
The steering wheel your embrace!
There's a break in the clouds if you
look now ...
Storm's abating, I'm here waiting ...
But the silver line's fleeting some days.
Now you've seeded those clouds with
that comment:
'Don't do that, girl' makes my lip curl;
Watch out; you'll spark a display!
~~ |
Highly Commended:-
The Forest by Dawn McDonald N.S.W.
THE FOREST
I stand in the sweet silent forest of my mind
I listen to the ghosts of dreams in the breezes
I feel the flutter of desires in a butterfly wing
I watch the babble of voices in the trickling brook
I drown the chaos of ideologies in birdsong.
I love this quiet place
Here in my mind.
All the beautiful things
Seen and done in life
Shine like the soft sun of daybreak
Through the treetops.
All the tiresome fears of living
Become unnecessary
Beyond mattering.
In this quiet green silence
I can try to see myself as I am.
~~~
|
Coquette by Jenny Pyatt N.Z.
|
Coquette
Dainty Maple,
Dripping with icicles.
Crisp, elegant,
Crystalline beauty.
Soon to weep as
A new day strips her finery.
Disrobed
But dignity intact,
A skeletal framework
Stands, waits,
Endures the cold
Revealing nothing,
No hint of tomorrow.
Stirring of buds on limb
Show trace of subtle hue.
Transformation.
Delicate lace-like beauty
Embraces boughs.
Deception revealed.
|
Moods of the Sea by Jenny Pyatt
N.Z.
| Moods of the Sea
Sea’s
champagne bubbles creeping up the sand,
Waves tease and chase feet playing on the shore.
A rhythmic shushing sound; no angry roar,
Until the ocean shows its other hand.
Now wild, life-threatening, crashing on the sand,
A powerful force with anger at its core.
And yet, these changing moods entice and draw
the fishermen and seamen from the land.
The brave, who risk these temperamental moods
To dive or fish to meet their families’ need
Beware! The ocean, watchful, darkly broods
When people strip its bounty – precious foods.
They rape the sea-beds, rob them through their greed
And test the ocean’s unforgiving moods
~ |
a
moment by Miles Trench S.A
a moment
An ancient lunar rhythm sets suds of floating
sea-foam high upon the sand. Soft blobs wobble
and nudge their
slow way along; carried by tide,
pushed by wind; seeking final dissolution
at the zenith of the strand.
Waves in endless
formation, organic, alive;
spread a dissolving mantle, then fade in wistful
retreat. Bubbles sigh and tiny pops of holes
appear and quickly vanish into sand greedy.
Brief
prismatic rainbows, Cheshire-grin the clear
azure; soon they disappear, fading into oblivion.
Tide shunts flotsam forward, seaweed swamped, strewn
shells in coloured fragments form a necklace on the sand.
Sea-bleached
bone and debris; cuttle, star, skeletal,
frame. All things here are detritus, piled in
mysterious, ordered mounds; littoral, washed by
time and constant wet-kiss splash of spray.
A lone gull
frets, neck outstretched, in the hegira
of a flaming sun. And for a single moment all is still:
Then, whisper-soft, the dusk declares; 'the
southeasterly's
upon us!' And great shoulders of sea begin to shudder
at the cold night to come.
~~
|
|
Resthaven Residents by Max Merckenschlager S.A.
|
RESTHAVEN RESIDENTS
They
settle
and tuck their chins in chests
like pelicans sheltering from the day.
Hours
pass
lapping cold feet in silence
save the odd perfunctory yawn
and the even desultory comment
“I'm
tired, and I want to go to bed!”
he had a cup of tea about an hour ago
and it went right to her head.
No-one listens
no-one stirs
until mealtime.
I used to envy pelicans.
Heads
rise as I wade across the room
toward my pelicans.
A glint of recognition
lights their pool of ancient eyes.
They crank their vintage engines of remembrance
taxi over safe, familiar waters
and
lifting
soar and glide in graceful circles
while I listen and observe them from below.
Clumsy
pedestrians.
Magnificent aviators.
And I've
remembered why I envy pelicans.
~~
|
Waiting Agony by Kathryn Anderson S.A.
|
Waiting Agony
Attempts to occupy her mind
require concerted effort...
periodic images intrude
eyes rest on clock
seconds drift through the morning.
She wills the hour past
yet dreads the instant hands point
to eleven and twelve
for that will signal the death
of her unborn grandchild
by use of the surgeon's
cold metal instruments.
~~
|
Heart of Light by Jo Mills
W.A.
|
Heart of Light
Heart of light…
the Centre holds and streams,
holds and streams
with every beat,
pulsing back and forth,
a form reflection of the One within.
How can this thing so
fragile,
spun of gossamer threads
and filaments of desire,
express so vast a flow?
The perfect mystery of
Being,
the wonder of it melts into
my core with such
sublime and rippling stillness.
Silently, I turn to watch and feel the
intertwining rhythms of the song…
Water runs and spreads
her silken softness,
Fire skips and dances, gaily laughing,
Earth-mother holds and shapes the countless forms,
restless, changing winds strum and pluck
the chords of thought.
Through all this play
the ether sings and whispers,
twirling patterns delicate as snowstars,
dissolving gently into rays of violet-blue.
Drawing in,
encompassing this undulating flow
the Centre holds and streams,
becoming deeper still…
The Heart of Light.
~~~ |
Commended:-
The Sorcerer's Apprentice
by Daphne Mayes N.Z
|
THE SORCERER’S APPRENTICE
Chop him down; ten will rise in his place.
Kill them too, then a hundred
Till hundreds of hundreds,
All keen to empty their buckets of hatred
Into the spreading flood of war.
Where is the Sorcerer?
Who has the power to cry “Stop”?
Oh Allah, Yahweh, God,
Do you do magic?
~~~
|
Spirit
Pouch by Anne Hollier Qld.
|
SPIRIT POUCH
Two slices of handmade paper
a pouch for my poems which
search out a sister’s life,
memory a laser beam.
Decisions must be made
what to include, what to omit
how not to be sentimental
unlayering the rock of truth.
Rhyme could sweeten
past mistakes
but blank verse will keep
the pity and the pain.
I shall include a photograph
showing us young in years,
though body language
reveals tension, springloaded.
She was jealous of our
mother’s preference for me.
I resented our glacier father
who thawed a little with her.
We did not know
we were pawns in a
domestic grudge
grinding us all down.
The garden we grew in
was sparse with love,
a thicket of criticism.
We bloomed sickly.
Perhaps I could write a prayer
place it in the wailing wall
of this pouch, and find
reconciliation now she’s dead.
~~ |
A Farmer's Plight
by David J. Delaney Qld
|
A Farmer’s
Plight
Kicking the ground in despair
Breathing in dry dusty air
A lonely tear rolls down his face
How long can he survive in this place?
Surveying the desolate barren ground
Grass, weeds or animals not to be found
Only the haunting cry of a single crow
Now the hot winds starting to blow.
Blowing to the homestead brown
White replaced by dust blown around
Fly screen doors heavily caked
Water troughs, empty, cracked, baked.
Machinery stands idle in the shed
Payments so far behind, into the “red”
Banks don’t care, want their money back
No chance of working into the “black”.
Wife and children left, moved into town
Couldn’t stay with the desolation abound
Thinking of him she hopes he’s fine
Then late at night for her, it’s crying time.
Memories of great grandfather working this land
No more than a horse, plow and bare hands
In all weather from early morning light
Resting only with the coming of night.
Watching a shadow cross his eye
Speckled grey clouds pass on by
Falling to his knees, the ground now closer
Clasping a crumpled letter, the banks foreclosure.
Demoralised! How many kicks will he receive?
Is this it? Can he get a reprieve?
One shot could finish it all now
Thinks of his family, alone in town.
Life’s full of choices, some hard to comprehend
Does one “give up” just let it all end?
Stand and fight, be part of mankind
Gather yourself together don’t decide blind.
~~~
|
I bought my dog a kennel.....
by Rebecca Foreman Qld.
|
I bought my dog a kennel.....
I bought my dog a kennel
in the hope that she just might
find shelter and protection
from things that go bump in the night.
I bought my dog a kennel
so that in the sleet and snow,
the rain, the hail, the scorching sun,
she’d have somewhere to go.
I bought my dog a kennel.
I wandered round and round
from one pet store to another
until the right one I had found.
I bought my dog a kennel,
an impressive sight indeed,
big enough for a small pony.
What more could a dog need?
I bought my dog a kennel,
of my affection this was proof,
nice big doorway, timber flooring,
painted walls and shiny roof.
I bought my dog a kennel.
She took one look and bolted.
After all my care and effort
I felt somewhat insulted.
I bought my dog a kennel.
I gently tried to coax her in,
but despite my good intentions
I just wasn’t going to win.
I bought my dog a kennel,
I put her toys inside,
her bed, her food, her blanket,
her favourite old rawhide.
I bought my dog a kennel.
She hasn’t slept there yet.
With all the weather we’ve been having,
her reluctance I don’t get.
I bought my dog a kennel.
She lies out on the deck,
on the grass, the tiles, the pavers,
I don’t believe it... flamin’ heck!
I bought my dog a kennel.
She stands out in the rain.
She’ll probably catch pneumonia,
I think she’s quite insane.
I bought my dog a kennel,
I didn’t do it for MY health,
but I think I like it so much
I’ll go live in there myself!
~~~ |
Homeless in Los Angeles
by Glennis Henning. N.S.W.
Homeless in Los Angeles
The stars are my canopy now, Mammy,
but they don’t shine much in Los Angeles,
too many city lights, they say, too much mist.
Couldn’t pay the rent no more, so here I am,
on the seat on the sidewalk ‘neath the plane trees.
Aint no use for a disabled vet in this land ‘o the free,
forgotten it seems, but I aint complainin’,
got my bags and my bundles and your ol’ patchwork quilt,
the one you made all those years ago,
pickin’ your eyes out by candlelight.
Kind of a comfort that ol’ quilt, Mammy,
so I sit in the mall watching the people,
such an interesting lot, Mammy, all sorts.
Some toss me a dollar or two,
slyly, slyly, quickly with eyes averted.
Why won’t folks look me in the eye no more Mammy?
Make me look down too, kinda ashamed,
but there aint no inspiration in a spotty, dirty sidewalk,
so I look up again mighty quick, searchin’ for the stars.
As I say tho’ – a bit hard to find in this city o’ angels!
I don’t like the trash cans much, Mammy, nor the rats;
kind o’ degrades a body – second-hand food,
second-hand food and averted eyes.
Remember my daddy’s eyes Mammy, always direct!
“I aint got nothin’ to hide,” that big daddy used to say,
standing tall, upright, wide-eyed, laughing.
“Oh my daddyo, pierce my li’l’ heart with one look,” you’d
exclaim then,
soft, soft and lovin’ and kinda coy, I remember.
Most days I can get one good feed outside the town hall,
and the church people give out paper bag lunches at Palisades,
but you have to be lucky, only there when the Spirit moves them,
and that ol’ Spirit seems to be busy elsewhere most days.
Goodnight now, my mammy, it’s a bit cold tonight,
cold and wet with a breeze from the sea swishing around,
swishing cold around corners and blowing the papers on the
sidewalk,
but not to worry – I wrap up well, head and all,
rat proof, with plenty o’ cardboard under me,
like a little caterpillar, your dark, curly-haired boy.
Trouble is, no chance o’ seeing the stars with my head buried,
And I gotta keep lookin’, searchin’ for those sparks o’ light –
sparks o’ hope.
I’ll just have to imagine them.
“Keep on imaginin’ and dreamin’,” you used to say. “The good
Lord will provide.”
Hallelujah amen to that Mammy, hallelujah amen,
but I guess the Lord’s stocks is runnin’ a bit low right now,
cos there’s plenty like me in America, plenty like me all over.
Yes, the good Lord’s got a problem all right – plenty just like
me –
lyin’ and imaginin’, imaginin’ and hopin’, prayin’ even,
beneath a whole big bunch o’ distant, disappearin’ and invisible
stars.
Goodnight Mammy dear! Luv ya’! God bless!
~~~
|
Good Friends - a villanelle
by Jan Foster N.S.W.
GOOD FRIENDS
- a villanelle
How fortunate we are to have good friends
to turn to when our lives are hard to bear.
Our aching hearts their kindness ever mends.
They’re with us as we face life’s curves and bends,
our joys and woes they willingly will share.
How fortunate we are to have good friends,
dependable, no matter what life sends.
When circumstances lead us to despair,
our aching hearts their kindness ever mends.
No discord there, no need to make amends,
for understanding crowns their tender care.
How fortunate we are to have good friends.
Our weakness on their steady strength depends.
No need for explanations – they’re aware.
Our aching hearts their kindness ever mends.
Their gentle steady friendship never ends.
We know, in circumstances foul or fair,
how fortunate we are to have good friends,
our aching hearts their kindness ever mends
~~~ |
Boy Waiting by Joan Fenney S.A.
Boy
Waiting
He
stands at the window
nose pressed against glass.
He watches. He waits.
At
four thinking only of now,
trusting hollow words from a father
who promises what he does not mean.
Words dripping off his tongue, like honey.
Hours
go by and still the boy at the window
leans forward. As darkness surrounds time
a mother pulls the blind down,
and a boy learns the meaning
of empty promises.
~ |
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