National Poetry Day 2004

Competition winners

3^rd prize

Preserve

Row on row of gleaming jam jars

Glint snugly on the larder ledge.

Red fruits from the sunny garden,

Dark ones from the wild hedge.

Will this amber, fragrant jelly,

Oozing on a fireside scone,

Still taste of nectar, warm and luscious,

When summer sun and warmth are gone?

Iona Lamb, South Wing, Coker Court

2^nd prize

Potatoes by twilight

In the glooming blue dusk

Sparrows twitter in the darkening thatch.

Trees stand out as black silhouettes,

Stark and silent against a summer evening sky.

Carrot tops flare like flimsy green flags

In the cool whispering breeze, whilst

Fat orange fingers delve deep in the soil

And I sigh in hushed delight.

Cabbages swell densely and smugly and fatly,

Their emerald hearts snug in a posy

Of rubber leaves like the tongues of cows

Lovingly laced by insects.

Beetroots burgeon beneath the earth,

Amidst an abundance of crimson-flushed foliage,

With promises of an inky pink brilliance

To stain the lips with a stolen kiss.

Reddening tomatoes hang heavy and ponderous

Like breasts, warm from the sun.

A casual fondle brands the sinner

With a pungent yellow aroma.

I feel the firm fleshy touch

Of courgettes as I fumble

Under giant hairy leaves like umbrellas,

Where thistles lurk and nettles thrive

To prickle the naïve or unwary.

Brushing past fresh green peas and beans

Curling round canes in a sensual embrace,

It is almost too dark to see the pale haulms

Of potatoes lying low in their beds.

Now I work by touch alone,

Rummaging eagerly,

Fingers in the dark,

Through cool crumbling soil,

Hunting hidden treasure:

The smooth solid roundness,

The solid luminescence of skin

Held hard in my hand.

A ripe plum falls

With a soft velvet

Thud.

O such succulent sweetness of flesh

Teaching us how we should bless and be blessed.

Bearing the weight of ravishing fruitfulness

Proudly in my basket before me.

Smiling serenely, I shut the door

On the secret pleasure of my garden.

Helen Backhouse, Moor Lane, East Coker

1^st prize

Passion fruit for Mrs McGrath

See it in its shrunken skin, paper light
As something kept in a pocket over long
Or an old golf ball lain fifty years in a river bed.

Must be some mistake. This, a fruit we must taste?
But here she comes, her tools: tea spoon and knife
And we sit, expectant as a nest of young birds.

The skin may be a dulled shell, but inside is red
As a Chinese lantern and seeds, each wrapped tight
As a boiled sweet in their glossy yellows.

So our gassy, chalky school room is cut through
With a sharp smell like mown grass, melons,
Apples fizzing in a hot sun and sherbet.

Out come the seeds, one by one, onto the bright spoon,
And out come the giggling, timid tongues, faces ready
To screw up and protest at the tart, fascinating newness of the world.

Catherine Simmonds, Halstock