WARE POETS

FIRST PRIZE

Me in my Ho Chi Minh sandals

You can kill ten of my men for every one I kill of yours, 
but even at those odds you will lose and I will win. 
						Ho Chi Minh, 1945

I shed inches, become compact,
agile; my body supple as elastic
so I can fold-up flat
like that contortionist beggar.

The muscles in my calves
are knotted rope.  I can squat
on my haunches for hours,
turn the unexploded shells

of my enemy into lethal snares
to blast him.  I sharpen bamboo
to the thickness of my wrists
which I will plant in the earth

to impale him when he false-
steps, as he will, on the shutters
of the window trap,
where he’ll fall, to be spiked

for his foolishness. My eyes
are ovals of onyx set
in porcelain pleats of skin.
They pierce the dark

as I wolf-lope through the caves,
bent double, join my comrades
in the planning room, drink tea
from bone-thin china – sharpen

our senses – drink to peace
as if we do not know how long
it will take, how many of us
will die waiting.  But we are many,

slip into each other’s rubber sandals
with silent ease.  In the cause
of freedom, we bond
under the mantel

of our collective imagination.
Victory cannot be far away.
In my Ho Chi Minh sandals
I know I can walk that far.


		Wendy Klein


SECOND PRIZE

Heart

When the heart
cracks like a cup
and we wonder whether to glue it
or throw it away,

we leave it on the draining-board
while we decide.
In the night, the heart gets cold
because of the draughty crack

and it shivers
the way we do, in bed alone.
There’s a hole behind our ribs
we can’t stuff with a hanky.

Our mothers would say –
leave a wound open, let air get to it,
it’ll heal quicker –
but what do mothers know?

Mothers leave us before we are ready,
waving goodbye from the gate
in their coats and good gloves,
handbags snapped tight shut.


		Jennifer Copley



THIRD PRIZE EQUAL

Afterthoughts

Afterthoughts love 3 a.m.
their time
to be around the house
in dressing gowns.
They don’t mean to
but they wake me up.
I hear them in the kitchen
poking about, chatting endlessly
getting stuff out of the fridge
putting it back
turning lights and taps
on and off, the restless things.

They switch moods
from cheerful, tolerant
and optimistic
to edgy, judgemental
and confrontational.
There’s one who is always
miserable but I don’t want
to speak about her.
I don’t like any of them really
because they never tell the truth
the inconsistent, fractious
teasing liars.


		Rosemary Muncie


THIRD PRIZE EQUAL

Triumph Triple R

Suburbia’s a blur; visors lowered, ripple
past the multiplex, Ikea, Leatherland.  Cars limp
and whine along the 406, beyond all help.
Not us: full of grace, curving into bends, slick tilt
and balance in the wind, arrive at Epping just on time,
helmets misted, eyeballed, respected, triumph
of mud around our boots.  It’s a new world; trip
and giggle in the line for bacon rolls, salty lure
for all those big-bollocked dogs.  High on the rite
of You be biker I’ll be biker chick, plump
with daring, stripped of restraint, can it hurt
to whoop on take-off, throttle wide, to rule
the road, burn rubber, feel the tarmac melt?


				Jacqueline Saphra


FOURTH PRIZE EQUAL

Sebastian

Sebastian was a gigolo
Who played the field, a real pro.
He told each girl he loved her true –
Samantha, Jessica and Sue.
His amorous style was hard to beat:
It swept his girifriends off their feet.
Then plying each with flowers and wine,
He’d murmur soft, “Your place or mine?”
With dark good looks and boundless charm
He reeled them in without a qualm
Until one day when, triple-booked,
His goose was well and truly cooked.
Sam’s party at the end of May
Had clashed with Sue’s, and that same day
Had coincided by mischance
With Jess’s gala dinner dance.
Unable to be everywhere
Sebastian laid his plans with care:
He’d go to Sam’s till half past ten
When he’d feign illness, leave, and then
Go on to Sue’s and there explain
He’d been delayed at work again.
He told Jess that his aunt had died
And he must go to Humberside
To organise the funeral rites
So he’d be gone for several nights.
He said, “I’d rather be with you,
But duty calls. What can I do?”
It might have worked had it not been
For Jess’s flatmate Angeline,
A friend of Sam’s from school days who
Was also thick as thieves with Sue
And, being a party-lover, went
To both these beanos, pleasure bent.
There Angeline was much surprised
To see Sebastian and surmised
That he’d played false with her best friends
And all to serve his selfish ends;
So feeling more than slightly vexed
She sent them pictures and a text
That proved his guilt beyond all doubt:
Sebastian’s perfidy was out.
The upshot was some dreadful scenes
Of jealous rage and vented spleens.
The story spread, and ill renown
Soon followed him around the town.
Thereafter, with his cover blown,
Sebastian had to sleep alone.


			Mrs J Croft



FOURTH PRIZE EQUAL

Climbing my Father

My father stands tall in the sun.
His bald head shines so high,
how can I reach him?

I climb his ladder:
boy of Kent
man of Sussex
man of Surrey
“the Phillips live here”.

I climb a rope twined with his fibres, of tweed,
corduroy, pinstripe, terylene, Silk Cut, moustache.

I climb to his helping hand
and balance on the plateau of his palm
as he raises me to the summit.
Hey, look where I am!
I’m perching on the moon
of my father’s smooth and shiny head,
with “Do it like this” and “I should cocoa”
puffing into the air that circulates
at the limits of our language.
The bygone peoples scamper far below.
I see the quiet mornings,
as the blakeys on his black brogues
tap the pavements past the Dials,
and the train carries him through
the long view of downs,
viaducts, Fenchurch Street.
I see his shy evening retreats,
him whispering hello to his newborn wife,
and lifting his pliable son
for the first time to his height in the air.
Behind me is the immensely soft glow of his head.
I see all that he sees,
and his long arm pointing
far beyond anything we can see.


			Tim Phillips


SPECIAL COMMENDATION

Death of an Undertaker

		1

No one knew I was ill.
They’ll find I’ve written
my own measurements in the ledger.
There’s a clear tick in the column headed ‘car’
though I fear Mary will insist on Nell and Dutch,
our black horses with purple plumes.

In my Father’s house are many mansions.
I wish I could believe it.
I spent my last day playing with Megan.
We wrapped her doll in my hanky,
put it to bed on the sofa.

		2

In here with me,
on the purple cushioning (our best seller)
Mary puts her letters, a photo
of just-born Megan’s hand lying on mine,
and as an afterthought, my spectacles.

She doesn’t look at my face,
focuses instead on the tie she has to knot
tightly the way I prefer,
and checking my blazer for loose hairs.
She talks to me in short spurts
like a tap if there’s an airlock in the pipe.

Megan is in the waiting-room
asking, When is Mummy coming out?

		3

Eileen O’Connor sits in her pew at the back.
She comes to all our funerals.
This time, a butterfly cried in her kitchen;
the window was painted up, she couldn’t set it free.
It appears again at the graveside,
circles my casket then plunges into the hole.
A bad thing… Eileen O’Connor shakes her head;
she has been known to hear the dead
arguing in the churchyard over such a portent.

		4

So this is it –
the darkest place I’ve ever known.
It’s as if I’m standing on the kerb with other dead people
waiting to cross the road
and it’s drizzling
and we’re all hiding under umbrellas
and we can’t see each other’s faces
and no one reaches out
and no one dares to put even a toe over the edge of the pavement.


			Jennifer Copley


SPECIAL COMMENDATION

The Lives of Neighbours

I have never been intimate with them, even when their frogs
invaded my garden or their dog ate my fence.  I know only

that they sometimes argue but I can’t hear what about,
make love silently if at all, often cook with garlic,

frequently receive packages.  Just today my doorbell
rang three times.  The postman knows my habits.

Each time a larger parcel, each time an interruption.
It was time to take a look.  Inside, I found their lives:

an orchestra that played songs from Oklahoma,
two seats for an obscure Hungarian play, a tupperware

filled with frogspawn.  I found his nervous breakdown,
her facelift, two mortarboards, a broken love-seat.

I’ve wrapped the parcels up again.  Nobody will know.
Soon the neighbours will come knocking and I’ll smile,

hand over what’s theirs, not mentioning all I’ve stashed away:
a box of milk teeth, one grand piano, their forgotten moon.


			Jacqueline Saphra


WARE SONNET PRIZE -- FIRST EQUAL

Today’s Decision

Yes, I could tell you what my feelings are
although I really don’t know what I’d say.
Or I could walk in front of speeding cars.
I’d stop my heart from beating either way.

For if you listened quietly then said,
“I’m flattered but I’d rather just be friends”
I think I’d run and hide inside my bed –
where I could snap in half without pretence.

So I won’t say what I had not prepared –
that thing which burns and spits beneath my skin.

I’ll think instead of when I turned and dared
to glimpse you sideways, like a guilty thing:
when like a mirror you were turning too
and letting you catch me, so I caught you.


			Sally Christian



WARE SONNET PRIZE -- FIRST EQUAL

Teen Flick

Mal Winter creeps into the high school hall;
King Zack, teen superhero quarterback
sneers, “Fuckin Fag”; the bleacher blondes all snigger.
Elaine, his prom queen wannabee, cat-calls,
“Tonight, my place or yours?” – behind Mal’s back
pretends to puke.  A shambling, lonely figure,

Mal sneaks into the music room, switches
the Korg to harpsichord; as rich
arpeggios crash across the outfield,
bored by the game, Elaine looks up – watches
an oak leaf pirouette above the pitch,
listens to Bach’s Sarabande, feels sad, but healed.
Tonight, she’ll hug her teddy bear in bed
and think of Zack, then dream of Mal instead.


			Alan Wickes



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