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Change – Lauren Campbell THIRD PRIZE
School number one, 1999, I was on the brink of five Jumper was red and had never been worn, And for once it wasn’t three shades brighter than everyone else’s. It was week two, and I had gotten told off For smacking boys’ bottoms in the playground. Friend count of 3004, Silly teacher called Mrs. Green. School number two, 2000, Now on the brink of six. Flaunted a new maroon jumper with a blue ‘Star of the Week’ badge, But, naturally, socks were noticeably greyer than everyone else’s. It was day four and needed the toilet, I shan’t lie, had a few problems; My teacher failed to inform me that I must collect a suitable quantity of toilet paper from her before going to the toilet. Friend count 52. Nice, if slightly forgetful teacher, called Miss Kinney Year 2001, school number three. Six. Was the only one who wore a turtle neck as opposed to a shirt and tie as uniform, tortuous on school photo day. Jumper far greener than rest of entire school. By end of first month, had acquired a number of eligible bachelors, This not including boy who felt need to call me ‘clock face’. Day three, Mrs. Roberts had to have words with me for making James White’s ear red after playing squeezing game. Friend count 9ish million, Was Babushka in play called Babushka. School four, 2002. Seven, and growing tired of being new. Another maroon jumper, this time without the ‘Star of the Week’ badge. Most horrific school experience of all time, as put finger in bird excrement whilst Climbing on outdoor play equipment. Cried out eyes whilst being cradled by friendly dinner lady, After having zero, except for dinner lady, Teacher who regularly exposed under-garments to class. School five, 2003, Surprisingly stayed at one school from age eight to eleven. Yellow polo top, blue jumper, incredibly short fringe. Pretty good experience overall, met my best friend ever, Ruined slightly by his moving to Australia. Went on Songs of Praise, and won an award for improvement in sports, Had several good friends, and a long-term on/off boyfriend, Friend count was variable, usually above zero. Dinner lady called Mrs. Withers was very mean. Now, I attend school number six, Seems to be a success so far, Would share an embarrassing anecdote from my time here, But have to see you all tomorrow. King – Kiran Barhey FIRST PRIZE
60 million pupils, fixed on screens Watching your face Seeing. The grief of your mother still hangs Like an umbrella Over your head, darkening your Eyes. But gold lights up your cheeks Reflects that victory. You waited So long. There it is, that bloom of velvet power and diamond. Crown. You remember youth/folly. That virgin, her conscience, her pearls. And that mess. Of Arab blood and alcoholic Paris. A love, hated. Unaccepted. But true. You live your life through lens and flashing bulbs. Mother’s On a five pound note. Now you will ride her chariot. The country’s breath has stopped. The mint is ready. Seeing. Crown waits, you’ve been engaged So long. Time to walk. People Watching your face Seeing that sun. Glow! That sceptre is yours, you are terrible and glorious. Power and glitter are in your blood. Bleed over this land and feed it with your flesh. God speed King. Change of Heart – Sarah Garland SECOND PRIZE A Sestina Duet Since meeting you, I’m subject to my heart; I hear you speak, I breathe in clouds of smoke That you’ve breathed out, and all my world falls still To quietly praise the miracle of you. I don’t know how to live without you close Beside me, dear. I pray you never change. Some days, I want to start again – to change My name, my face, my hair, my home, my heart, To purge you from my life at last. I’d close Myself away in city smogs and smoke And leave behind the tireless ghost of you. A waste of time. Somehow, you’d haunt me still. I know you think I’m crazy, darling. Still, I only think the best of you. I’d change All that I am, if only it meant you, If it would make you mine. You have my heart Though yours remains elusive as the smoke That smells of you, that whispers that you’re close. Alone at night, I worry that you’re close. Sometimes you are – and when the house is still, Each footstep could be yours. I sit and smoke, And wonder whether I could ever change Enough to make you hate me. Keep your heart; I won’t be bought. I won’t belong to you. I kissed you, once. I often dream of you: So fragile in my arms, pressed oh-so-close; Your lips; your heart racing against my heart, Your fingers clawing at my chest – but still It’s nothing like enough. Don’t ever change; I loved you helpless, substanceless as smoke. My life is dark and small and thick with smoke; I have so little left untouched by you, So little space to breathe. Each night, I change My clothes behind the curtains, drawn tight close, And lie in semi-darkness, very still, The only sound the drum-beat of my heart. Chorus The night descends. You’re out there. Maybe close, A lonely ghost in smoke, and starlight. Still, I’ll wait. One day you’ll have a change of heart. A Canoeist's poem on the aspect of change – Sophie Biegel
The canoeist struggled in the blueberry river, Fruity juices licking the smooth wooden paddles. The green paint clawed by the razor rocks, The caressed wood of the hull locked in the sticky grasp of the speckled water. But the oars were strong and so was the sun, bright as a halo swamping the good, And so very very high in the sky- “my dear sir its twelve noon” it said. And so he had his sandwiches, Branston pickle they were, On the rocky shore, Watching the salmon as glimmering disco balls Taking part in the annual aqua dance. But the afternoon wore on, as he sailed in the Red Indian dream, The sun ducking her head he thought, Much like the man fast asleep on the train last Wednesday. They said no one could have seen it coming on that gorgeous idyllic day, The toss of the tide that threw the little man over the edge of the mermaid’s thunder. The waterfall crashing, screaming, as she pitted herself against the rocks Breaking the back of a man made wonder, with the pleasure and power of almighty Neptune. The river of life has so many twists; the canoeist may as well have been blind “It was so sudden” they remarked after, “that the fish didn’t even stop their dance.” I Used to Write With a Pencil: An Ode to Left-handedness - Emma Haggett I used to write with a pencil, but I’m using a fountain pen today. Miss says I’m allowed to. All the boring, boring hours I had to spend making the perfect joined-up ‘Q’, On that funny, liney paper, And then trying to think of words that have Q it, Have paid off. ‘”Queen... qu... qu... quick... quack...?” I don’t think there are many words with Qs in. I won’t get smudgy black fingerprints all over my work anymore, Or crumple my pages with my super fast rubbings-out. Now I get the glory of blue stain on my thumb, and on my pointing finger and on my middle finger (swearing finger! Tehe!) And all down my arm. And on my nose a bit. Sometimes. It has cartridges and all. If you step on them they explode. I dared Michael to eat one and he was sick and it was blue! But the ink inside it, it’s magic. My big brother says it comes from octopus, But he thinks that tomatoes are fruits so he doesn’t know anything. Anyway, you can make it disappear! (The ink, not my brother) All you need is one of them pens that smells a bit like wee. Miss says I’m not allowed a pen today. Says I got too excited. Says I need to grow up. Now I have a pencil again like the stupid kids on blue table. I was happier before I got my pen. View from an Upstairs Window – Daisey Friend
A litter of taupe and auburn curls, Thrown by the wind into billowing whirls, Leaping and skipping like giddy young girls. A sad thing lacking in England today: The children content simply to laugh and to play A stark silhouette, like an age-gnarled hand, Welcomes the visitor back to our land, Shakes from his wings the last remnants of sand. But his red waistcoat is now out of style. “Bigger” and “better” are more worthwhile. Wisps of green smiles begin to emerge, Bursts of bright colour appear on the verge, All for the outside should tumble and surge! Some have no outside to seek or to see: Just grey upon grey, or the top of 3C. Gleam in the sunlight or relax in the shade, View rivers of azure, valleys of jade, Thrill at the palace of sand you have made. Flatten the meadows and puncture the sky, For what use are Barley, oats and rye. The Changing Tide of Language – Rosa Spencer
A story, it changeth from start to finish Perchance it may start with two scurvy knaves And end with a pair of star-crossed lovers Or mayhap it starteth with a shipwreck And endeth with a reunion of families But the finale always doffers from the opening act. There are certain persons in society Who abhor that which deviates from the norm They look upon it with disdain and cast it out And yet some others would welcome it Nurture the small bud of rebellion And blow the embers into a raging bonfire of change. What ho, old bean! Jolly good to see you! I say, things these days Just aren’t what they used to be, are they? I remember, back in the good old days People knew how to behave, so they did, what? Youngsters had some respect of their elders and betters! My word, Roger, have you seen the papers? Sometimes it’s hard to believe the things they say All this new technology, it’s not how it used to be I always say you shouldn’t run before you walk And here the whole world seems driven to it! I don’t know...people these days... Yo dude, wassup? How ya doing’? I ain’t seen you in yonks, man! You ‘eard what Sean did? Weren’t it wicked? That’s your bruv, innit? It ain’t? Ah, shaddap. You don’t know nuffink, you don’t Ah, whatevar! Butterflies – Brodie Turner I stood in the sweet air of one summer dusk Astounded and amazed As all around me the wings of butterflies Set the sky ablaze. Piercing flecks against the night: Wings of silver and spun with gold. I reached out to snatch at the butterflies, To keep them in my hold. Yet one by one they faded away Escaping from me too fast. And there stood I like a ravenous animal Held back by the invisible glass. For when I tried to reach, And when I, too, wanted to fly I found myself rooted to the ground Separated from the other butterflies An iron chain around my ankle, And on my forehead branded An ’x’, a kiss of death, As the butterflies left me stranded. Around me, they grew, they blossomed Around me they all thrived. And there was I, trapped in time, Solitary and deprived. I slowly withered into myself, My sparkle gradually died. My own wings shrivelled and depleted. The fire gone from inside. A change had formed within me And from outside all they could see Was how I had always appeared, But it was a mere reflection of me. Now times passes and I am Hopeful that my day will come, I will break free from this hold I will become A beautiful shining butterfly, And everyone will behold My own dazzling sparkling wings As they begin to unfold
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