 Greetings, poetry lovers – we, the nr1 poetry judges, salute you. This year’s batch of entries was typically eclectic, and our winners have been drawn from across the barricades of age, sex, and class; as always, we are curiously proud of this year’s winners. To add a dash of poetic metaphor ourselves: if our fine city is an allotment, we’re fondling some damn fine sprouts. Here are the winners, in all their glory.
THEME: NORWICH LANDMARKS
Norwich Castle
You stand proud on the hill Like a magnolia lego brick Waiting for a child to swallow you and choke. Soldiers amassed on ramparts waiting, a pot of bubbling boiling oil Like those they used to make Kettle Chips in Bowthorpe before they shut it down Because labour is cheaper abroad - Hear the workers cry, like the rastafari, Exodus! Movement of thy 'kettle masters'. King of reggae, thy name be Bob Marley! Oh cruel Irony! Thy name be Norwich Castle.
Bishmilla Noh, Bowthorpe, 43
THEME: HALLOWE’EN
A Halloween poem
Pumpkin faces scream in agony
Foretelling the death of my soul They say she was a ghost once Bleeding eyes and an a scythe She scathes Scares the skin from spiders crawling over rotten flesh I burn I burn!
I am the thrown egg
against the suburban wall of an uncaring world An idle lashing out against a dead dream Dead like the skeleton that hangs from my closet clattering his teeth lashing against the meat hook and desperately craving a jaffa cake.
--Gemma DeLancy, Costessy, Age 7 THEME: DIVERSITY IN NORWICH Melting Pot There's lots of them down Magdalen Street Them Liberals say "rejoice" - But what's the point of English streets without an English voice? So if, like me, you're sick of it, join Norwich BNP We'll goose-step through the marketplace A fine old sight to see. That’s not that I'm a racist, no, I'd like to make that clear: In some ways, they’re ahead of us: They stone you if you're queer. Bert Troughton, Aylsham Road, 68, White THEME: TOURISM Guided Tour of Thorpe Hamlet On your left, Anglian Water, Moneyfacts: On your right, The Royal Mail Processing Centre Interestingly, did you know Thorpe ,Sit down please, Thorpe Is the Norman name for village? And did you know Hamlet Is the Saxon name for village? So - yes, that’s right, you at the back Yes, that’s right It’s called Village Village Ho ho ho. Anyway, hold on tight, sharp left here Wooooooah Onto Rosary Road There’s bugger all to see here - sit down please, Oh look, that might be a brothel - And there’s the back of Anglian Water. You there, stop throwing chips At each other. Right, back down the hill And there you go. Thanks for your attendance today. My name’s Gus and I have eight children to feed Please give kindly. Cheers now. TS Eliot, New York THEME: TRAVEL Rockin’ the A11 Ain't nowhere, nothing closer than heaven Than speeding down the A11 In my pimped out, straight-edge Honda There ain't no ugly can take the sweet edge Off my neon lighted undercarriage Before you see me I'm so gone, ya. You losers can do nowt but stare In your sensible cars and underwear, When I burn past goin' 95 upon ya. Cause I'm a straight up urban pimp, And you're some old fart yokel gimp, I'm smooth like Flora, you’re just fauna. Your car ain't covered with nothing but turds, And mine ain't packed out with nothing but birds, On the back seat I gots Kylie, Sadie, Sonja. You ain't never gonna pass me, you know, In that tired, rusty, skank-ass Renault, And that you can put your money onna.
--Prisoner HH6738382
HMP Norwich, Waterloo Road --- THEME: THE FORUM Contemplating A Failed Bourgeois Marriage From Pizza Express in the Forum Richard, Richard, oh Richard you bastard Forty-six is no age to be dining alone, and yet I sit, staring out at the enormous phallus of St Peter Mancroft penetrating the sky, making me recall the way the curtain would rise and fall gently on those late summer mornings as I lay fulfilled on the four poster bed in our rustic Bordeaux pied a terre listening to you sing Beatles songs in the shower, in French Michelle, ma belle, you would sing and all the other Beatles songs translated in your own special way: Je voudrais a prenez ta main Aime: c'est tout ta requiré and your favourite: Tout nous habitons dans un submarine jaune Now I think about it Yves and Pierre were right: You really are quite the modern twat And as for that strumpet,
You're welcome to her. She’ll see through you in two minutes flat And I’m taking the wine rack, The quilt and the cat. Waiter? Bring me more Pinot Grigio. And olives. God yes, bring me olives. Michelle Tavistock-Larner, soon to be Michelle Larner, New Costessey, 46 THEME: REGRET Domino’s Delivery Bike Rider Upon a black wheeled steed, like knights of yore He brought a Margarita to my door Crash helmet gleaming ‘neath the fair-skinned moon I held the wall for fear that I might swoon So manly, so breathtaking was his stride I cast away all dignity and pride And through the door, I ushered him inside Upon the Argos rug, I spread ‘em wide and slipped on Marvin Gaye’s Sexual Healing. Two minutes staring at my artexed ceiling. He left me with a pizza unappealing - Cold and greasy, stringy cheese congealing. Into the night, above his engine’s roar My mother saying words like ‘slut’ and ‘whore’ I put the pizza box into a drawer - I didn’t want to eat it any more. Chantelle Stracey, 36, Constitution Hill THEME: THE LOCAL MEDIA What’s The Frequency, Stuart? Stuart, Stuart, Stuart White How reckless your surf down the information highway One hand on the handlebar of the Harley Davison of truth One finger (of the other hand) Caressing the brake lever the zeitgeist of the era Flitting in and out of my benzedrine consciousness A modern-day Banquo at my back Was it you I saw in Adlards that night In a polo neck, standing upon the table Reading Haikus to the waiter? Perhaps not. Maybe you have a brother. Yet this much I know to be true: you would never say irony was the shackles of youth. And nor would Carol Bundock. Michael Stiper, c/o the Pottergate Pantry, Pottergate THEME: OFFICE LIFE Working at Norwich Union The phone does not ring - It shrills and shrieks It sings like a banshee Or other celestial being For which we yet have No words. Oh god, I think. Please, please, no. What have I done To deserve this? I keep a plastic knife in my drawer and one day I will break the skin upon My wrists and keep on sawing Until I can throw my hands out Of the window and into the street below. Oh, the scattering of pigeons as My hands fall like porcelain shards
Falling
Falling Falling. Oh glorious revolution when we Shall all be Handless Cordless
Free. Rajesh Gupta, 28, Bombay |
