We are delighted to announce the winners of the 2020  cafe Writers Open Poetry Competition, judged by Helen Ivory. 

First prize goes to Damen O’brien 

Callus

She has a line of blisters from her last race
tattooing her ankle where the brace
stabilised her foot – little snake bites.

The assault and battery of hard-
pack trail has wrought corralled ridges
on the heel, on the ball of her toe.

So many builder’s hammers tapping
down the nails of her feet, the soles
of her feet, its contours are a runner’s

and she no longer notices them, having
chosen them, the way Rocky bloodied his knuckles
on a side of beef with a prize-fighter’s

inurement to consequences, his ears curling
and fat with pounding, the white scars under
each eye, his slow pugilist’s tongue.

These scarifications are a blacksmith’s life: taking
a brittle bar of iron and with a little heat, a little coal,
an artist’s patient blows, raising the resonance of steel.

A callus starts with something soft and supple:
a kiss on the mouth of a trumpet, which lets Satchmo
call a crystalline double G from a hard embouchure

or one hundred thousand drumming strikes
that produce a runner, cumulatively, stubbornly,
a shaped swirl of metal, a champion’s knuckles.

There’s no reason to a callus, no knowing which
trauma or triumph will produce them.  Sometimes
the skin breaks and weeps, sometimes it’s a caulk

for the black seep of an old hull. Enough
to keep a mariner afloat.  You can’t see it, but
you know it’s there, doing its job, pushing back.

 

Damen O Brien is an Australian Poet living in Queensland.  In 2020, Damen won the Moth Poetry Prize, the Newcastle Poetry Competition (UK) and the Newcastle Poetry Prize (Australia).  Damen’s first book, ‘Animals With Human Voices’ is forthcoming through Recent Work Press in September 2021. (www.dameno.org)

 

Second prize goes to Alex Russell  

17 Sunsets To See Before You Die

Ever since I learned that hurricanes have eyes
from an episode of The Simpsons, I spend
more time than I’d like to admit thinking I am
in the eye of various things. “We’re in the eye
of the storm now” I say, in multiple situations,
for my own benefit only. I keep variations to myself,
often and excitedly. “I’m in the eye of the service
station now” I say softly while enjoying a cherry
cola and overpriced fries, halfway through a long
trip with your whole life in the boot and back seats
of a reasonably priced automatic Vauxhall, except
for the parts of your life that are on my lap
as we drive. “I’m in the eye of this presentation
about how to use attendance monitoring software
which will almost certainly have a total overhaul
of the user interface within two months, rendering
almost all of this information outdated” I write
in the white space of poorly typeset handouts,
in between clipart and haikus about an old friend
who died before I got to introduce him as such,
before I could take a trip and by kind coincidence
bump into him at a service station, a warm surprise
after a long drive, the imprint of a toaster still
slightly visible on my inner calf after I tried to nestle
it under the seat and got it stuck. “We’re in the eye
of I, Robot now” I would have said at minute 52
of its runtime, if I had ever sat down to watch I, Robot
intentionally. Instead I’ve caught snippets of it here
and there accidentally, enough times that I feel like
I understand the plot exactly as much as I would
if I’d watched it once on purpose. I have a theory
that you can fall in love with a stranger in the same
way you can know most details of what a movie
is about even if you’ve never tried to consume it.
I’m in the eye of my entire life most of the time,
moving carefully, just enough to stay central.
At least, that’s how I like to imagine it. The two
of us dancing, along with everyone else I’ve ever met,
slightly anxious, trying to make it all a bit wider.

 

Alex Russell is a non-binary poet, youth mental health practitioner, and editor in chief at Placeholder Press.

 

Third Prize goes to Amelia Loulli 

Portrait Without a Sonogram

the woman     is indoors    on a lightless January day    she is
on the floor     in a cubicle      lights on    the woman is   in her kitchen
wearing   her dressing gown     wearing      a standard issue gown
tied at the back    the woman      has her back    to her washing machine
the woman is    the only person    in the room      she is    wearing a pink gown
with insistent flowers      she is      sitting on the forest floor    the woman
is laying on a bed     big enough    for only her body    her hands in her lap
the woman is     in her kitchen      lights off    the woman     is in a room
made of blue      curtains           a glass of water   at her feet    the woman is
sleeping     under a small     table on wheels    beside a tower     of three-a-day
pill pots    the woman is   beside a broken    row of trees     the woman
has red     cheeks        resting her head    on her washing machine   mid-spin
the woman is   far from the sea       wearing white socks     the woman
is in her kitchen      wearing no rings      sleeping    under a whiteboard
her name     a date      the woman    has an orange     skin marked   only
with the crescent indent   of her thumbnail      the woman      is waiting
for the painter    to finish   she is sleeping    next to a chair   her bags and coat
the woman is    an animal who didn’t    run    she is    being     painted
with a blue cellular blanket      over her knees    the woman is         a target
resting    woundless    legs      the woman is lying       arms splayed
open   dry lips    the woman is     thinking    she will peel     the orange
the woman is     lying       hands     as far apart   as can be    she is   realising
her insides    have all been removed    she can’t eat      the woman lies
her hands nowhere     near prayer     tongueless   she can’t breathe
the woman is   being     painted      palms up          hands empty

 

Amelia Loulli is a poet and writer living in Cumbria. A pamphlet of her poetry was published in 2019 by Nine Arches Press in Primers Volume Four. In 2020 she was shortlisted for the Oxford Brookes International poetry competition and longlisted for the Women Poets’ Prize. Her work has been shortlisted for the Bridport Prize three times. She is currently undertaking an MA in poetry at Newcastle as well as working on a pamphlet of new poems and a verse novel.

 

The Norfolk Prize goes to Jane Wilkinson 

This Poem Contains an Axe     after This poem contains gull song Kayo Chingonyi

held above a head, two hands weigh up
its options: to hack the log or not. Can we stop
the next chopped conjunction? halt the whet-edge 

contact with holly trunk or reddish yew flesh,
mute sound for a second to disclose smaller notes,
wood-smoke settling in the sofa cushions, uneasy 

simmer on the stairs as a trickling stream
steps down, articulates its peaty creep across
the hall, soaking the kitchen. In dark thoughts 

of thickety cupboards appliance lights glare
in pairs. Their tiny red eyes spy my whittled boy
fleeing through the back door, his bells for buttons 

ring and my legs are brittle kindling twigs, my skirt
is paper bark. It’s not the clock’s dogged tock
you can hear starting up – the door bangs shut –

not the cluck of tongue sucked from the roof
of my dirty mouth, it is the sweet-spot split.
Listen! The precision-made steel-blade lands.

 

Jane Wilkinson is a landscape architect living in Norwich. She is published in numerous magazines including Ink Sweat & Tears, The Alchemy Spoon, Finished Creatures and Magma, and is in anthologies with Emma Press and Live Canon, she was shortlisted for the Alpine Fellowship Prize 2019 and placed in a number of competitions including 1st and 2nd in Guernsey Literary Festival Poetry Prize 2020 and Ist in Strokestown International Poetry Prize 2020.
Twitter @JMcCarthyWilkin
Instagram  janemccarthywilkinson

 

Commended

Katie Hale

How the Southern Right Whale Got its Name

Because it was the right speed to be hunted,
because its buoyancy was right 

to float for collection, harpooned
on the right side of pelagic, was right 

for products extracted right on the beach
and like all in such rich waters, coin-right –

because it was lamp-right, soap-right, greased
the right-angled joints of an Arkwright, 

because of the repeated rites of fat-slick metal:
the flensing rite, the sawing rite, the rite

of boiling bone from body, of wicking
away the oil – the grinding and barrelling rite –

because of the smoke-thick myth of it, wrought
from suffocated stations, from the shipwright,

the mincing knife, from chain-strap, monkey-belt,
hook; because of the birthright

of all that iron and asbestos, which is
to come to dust, because of the ocean’s birthright

of rust – let the deep consume
all human endeavour, let it underwrite

the right whale’s colossal pursuit:
to sift a future from its own contested rights,

to ghost-write a new population –
wave-wright, engineering the saltway ahead.

 

Commended

Penny Boxall

Donkey

A long way down, the sea grabs at the weak
argument of cliffs. It’s getting fractious.
We’re neither of us keen to throw
the other over but can’t back down.
We size each other up. 

My donkey is entrusted with vital curios
and precious metals. Your donkey
is bogged down with something-or-other.
You claim the same, or rather the opposite.
We shade our eyes against the sheen.

One of us will pass, which makes the other
ballast. Best crack on. But the donkeys
toss their heads, high-minded.
We hold them by the noses. They don’t budge.
We’re an abandoned game of chess,
twin pawns facing-off. 

Talk is awkward, so I hold
you in my eye. I can see
you’re reflecting on
the drop.

The beasts stand spindly and unthinking.
Our minds flick like abacuses.
The waves begin to weigh in, then back out.

 

Commended

Joanna Ingham

Results will be with you as soon as possible 

The week I am dying I get obsessed
with the pond, drag a chair past the alders,
take up residence at the margins. 

I worry about deoxygenation, spend hours
researching hornwort, order it online in bunches
which must be weighted down with stones. 

I speak to men at garden centres,
in bubbling fishtank light, insist on native species.
I fill the boot with plastic bags of watermint, 

forget-me-not, spend fifteen pounds
on a Brandy Bottle, the only indigenous waterlily
and named for its alcohol scent. 

Back at the pond I wade out in my shoes.
The labels say to keep the plants
in their baskets but some things can spread 

and it doesn’t really matter. I lower
the Brandy Bottle because it needs to live
three feet down in the tanin brown depths.

By August it will have pushed skywards,
broken the meniscus, nudged through
its yellow buds. I build log piles 

for the newts, fret about poplars that drop
their flowers, eutrophication which causes
a dense and excessive growth of life,

and dragonflies, the way they leave
their outer casings on the sedge, clutching
as if their selves might one day come back.

 

Commended

Stephen Boyce

How to Measure a Tree

Stand back, and start with the height of the tree,
          its shadow geometry, bearing and angle of growth.
Now approach, stretch out your arms and, cheek to the bark,
          make a guess at the girth of the trunk. Imagine
the depth of the tree in the earth. Examine
          the span of its limbs, arc and spread of the canopy –
does it reach as far through the air as the roots
          extend underground? Work out from a drip
the volume of sap, of water converted to sugar.
          Feel the thickness of bark, of phloem and xylem
together. Measure the lumber in metres cubed.
          Estimate the number of leaves, layers
of mould, that sweet-smelling litter that softens
          your footfall. Make a sum of the microbes and spores,
the woodlice that throng, the beetles and bugs,
          lichen, fungi and mosses, the species of birds
that roost in its branches. Test the strength
          of the boughs, record the wind-twists and sun-turns.
Assess one by one the length of its shoots,
          circumference of buds, take a punt at the quantum
of seed, weigh the fruit in the palm of your hand
          and, when the tree’s felled, count the rings
for the years of its life. Make a list of the uses
          for wood when cut into workable lengths
to be planked and planed or whittled and turned –
          logged, pelleted, burned. When that’s done,
and your head and your heart are full to the brim,
          stand here – right here – in the shade of its sisters,
match your breath to their breath, heartbeat to heartbeat.
          Listen! To the unending seep of the sap,
to the voices that sing through the veins of the leaves
          in leaf-fall or bud-spring. They tell of the riches
of summer and snow, their words set loose in the wind.

 

Commended

Elisabeth Sennitt Clough

If one of us forgets to water the flowers and herbs

what will mask the smell of decay then?
says the girl who won’t
everyone mutters the lord’s prayer in reverse
and the girl who won’t watches a grub writhe on a leaf
the villagers stand on their doorsteps
spit to the east and cross themselves
why worry about the cows
giving blood instead of milk
when the faithful still sit under their bridges
take instruction from eels and pike?
ague are we there yet?
the girl who won’t is always there
for songs and stories
and to let you know it’s your cabbage field
that’s been set alight
the walls aren’t closing in
they’re falling down
the dykes are full of boggarts
and tiddly muns and lantern men
and the village folk don’t even know
which language the fish are in
the girl who won’t asks
do you ever listen to the dead?
hold their dry tongues in your ears?
they’d tell you to run backwards
from the bouquets of posies and herbs
fix yourself on the direction of the plague-cart

 

Other shortlisted Poems / Special mentions

Seeds, by Lee Mackenzie

Families Can Only Be Grown on Arable Land, by Charlotte Baldwin

Nightshift at the Bird Factory, by Fokkina McDonnell

State of Emergency, by Oz Harwick

The Women, by Stuart Pickford

Eight of Cups, by Claire Askew

the box of maternal recall, by Elisabeth Sennitt Clough

they ask me how did you get here? can’t you see it on my body?, by Oli Isaac

Going South, by Oliver Comins

Watching my daughter draw a picture in a war zone, by Sue Davies

Poem with Bedlington Terriers, by Vanessa Lampert