According to Harry
Baker there are two sorts of people when it comes to prizes for
poetry; those who have won a prize, and those who believe poetry is
an art form and not a competition (aka those who haven’t won).
But as someone that
is trying to have more poetry in my life this sort of anthology is a
god-send (in a similar way too the catalogue to the AOI World
Illustrators Awards for art) – I don’t have time to read the bad
stuff and this is the good stuff :-)
It is a strong
collection but this poem stood out
Alan Buckley, Scum,
15/04/89
I lay on the turf,
under a steely sky.
No one picked my
pockets. No one pissed
on me. The copper
who gave me the kiss
of life wasn’t
beaten up. I died,
that’s the truth;
and though I’d never known
such closeness, our
bodies like beans in a can,
when the air was
squeezed from me I died alone.
That’s all
changed. The words we’d sund as fans
became our bond.
We’ve walked, the ninety-six,
through parish
halls, ,hushed stadiums, and courts.
Now we walk back
through time. Something sticks
in our throats.
You’re at your desk, lost in thought,
scanning a page of
lies you’ll say is true.
What’s the
headline that can trumpet this?
Look up. We’re
standing right in front of you;
what burns in us is
fierce as any sun.
That word you want
to use. It’s on your lips.
Say it to our faces,
one by one.
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