Our judge Vanessa Lampert placed five poems in the highly commended category. These were
- The Stick by Chris Newton
- Escapade by Caroline Hannah
- Grandmother's Parlour by Mike Morgan
- Feather or Leather by Pete Smith
- Customer Service by Liz Jones
Third Prize
Third prize was awarded to Isabel White for her poem '21st Century Cruise Fever'. Isabel writes
Founder of poetry collective Alarms & Excursions (www.alarmsandexcursions.com), over 20 years, Isabel has performed her work across the UK, at Shakespeare & Co in Paris; in Rotterdam,at Guernsey, Keats, Lyra, Ledbury, Primadonna and many other festivals. She has worked with many household name poets in the UK, was a finalist in the BBC Proms (twice), Bridport and a dozen other competitions. She served six years on the board of the Poetry Society and is currently a director of Modern Poetry in Translation. Her work has appeared in over 50 magazines and anthologies on three continents, and she has four full collections and two pamphlets published to date. Her next collection is due in 2027.
21st CENTURY CRUISE FEVER
after John Masefield
I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a well-stocked bar and a week to drink it dry
An obese babe in a bathing suit and the fat boys mooning
A beached whale beyond the pale and Jane MacDonald crooning
I must go down to the seas again, down the Caribbean way
On a ship that guzzles gallons of oil every second of every day
And all I ask is a lounger, my towel spread bright upon it
Twice nightly shows and bingo, with re-runs of Wallace and Gromit
I must go off on a cruise again for the call of the on-board store
Is a wild call and a clear call and one I can’t ignore
And all I crave is a close shave that you might call a Brazilian
Swathed in oil by a Siamese goil that cost me a gazillion
I must go off on a cruise again for the call of foreign climes
Where the locals all speak English and I can buy the Sunday Times
And all I ask is a coach trip and a few hours ashore
A chance to ‘do’ the Med again just like we did before
I must call in at a port again with gin upon my lips
And step ashore for a snowstorm and a plate of fish and chips,
A suntanned hunk in his bathing trunks wearing a tight bolero,
Gimme water wings and diamond rings and a donkey in a sombrero
And soon I must sail home again though I never get enough
With my back sack and crack from Hackensack, and a belly full of fluff
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,
A mojito with Danny Devito, and my week in the sun is over.
Second Prize
Second prize was awarded to Duncan Forbes for his poem 'Moreton Bourton Stow'. Duncan writes
Duncan Forbes has taught English for many years. Now retired, he lives in Cheltenham, Gloucestershire. His poems have been published by Faber, Secker and Enitharmon, who produced a Selected Poems in 2009. He has won various awards including TLS/Blackwells prize. For his most recent collections, Human Time (2020) and Under the Sun (2024), see www.duncanforbes.com
MORETON BOURTON STOW
Was there a bus that used to go
To Moreton Bourton and to Stow?
I ask because I need to know
And does it still and is it slow
From Moreton Bourton and to Stow?
And in which order does it go
To Bourton Moreton then to Stow
Or is it Moreton Bourton Stow
Or does it just go to and fro?
I need an answer, yes or no.
The sign says Moreton Bourton Stow
But it would be a bitter blow
If it’s no longer on the go,
The Cotswold Omnibus & Co
Or did that vanish long ago?
‘There is a bus that’s set to go
To Moreton Bourton and to Stow
But in which order who’s to know?
Get on the bus and let it flow.
It’s bound to take you high and low.’
The marsh of Moreton, wold of Stow,
And Bourton where the waters flow:
All those are where I long to go,
With limestone villages on show
Where sheep look down on farms below.
‘Too late, too late. You’ve been too slow.
You’ve missed the bus. It had to go
To Bourton Moreton and to Stow.
The next one leaves tomorrow though
For Moreton Bourton or to Stow.’
First Prize
First prize was awarded to Jacqui Ritchie for her poem 'Don't be an Idiom'. Jacqui writes
Jacqui Ritchie is a London-based poet whose work primarily explores the human condition, theology, and the natural world. Raised by two literature teachers, she grew up surrounded by books and her late father would often leave poetry collections in her bedroom, nurturing an early love of verse. As a child, she began centoising folk songs, before turning to poetry in her teenage years. She also speaks Arabic and Hebrew, languages that continue to inform her sensitivity to rhythm, translation, and etymology.
During the Covid pandemic, she began sharing her work through the Faber Academy, where she is now a two-time alumna. Her poem Meditation on My Left Hand was published in the Passionfruit Review in 2026, and Jonah appeared in Tablet magazine. She was longlisted for the National Poetry Competition 2026 and shortlisted for the Bridport Prize 2025. She has also recently been shortlisted for the Fish poetry prize 2026. She is currently working on her first poetry collection while completing a master’s degree in psychotherapy at Regent's University London.
DON’T BE AN IDIOM
I could care less for idioms, by in large,
these expressions are like old wise tales
handed down over the years and flailed
on tongues without sufficient do diligence.
To be pacific, most of the people who tote
misused phrases wouldn’t say boo to a ghost.
They are everywhere, escape goat grown-ups
tethered to the wrong tree the dogs are barking up.
I'm biting my time, listening with baited breath
to catch one of these malaprop card sharks
dealing out lexical errors right, centre and left.
To add salt to injury I could mark their cars…
I'm on tender hooks, quite flustered
when someone asks me to pass the mustard
(not cut it), it could be a mute point, but
I think we should quietly nip it in the butt.
For all intensive purposes, help is at hand—
To revive feral tongues from linguistic land
mines – it is a doggy dog world in the cut-above queue,
say goodbye to gaffes, without further adieu.
If this verse has your interest peaked,
if you are, by now, as white as a sheep,
tow the line and try not to be bitter
polish your words, then roll them in glitter.
No comments:
Post a Comment