Settle Sessions Poetry Competitions
2022: With regret, we have decided to defer our next competition for a further year. However, we hope to run another Poetry Posters campaign in the autumn.
2019: Our most recent competition was held in 2019 in memory of Veronica Caperon, a founding member of Settle Sessions. See our News page for a review of 2019, including the competition. The winning and commended poems are below.
First prize
MARCHE AGRICOLE, LOUHANS
If you imagine it would have been noisy, a cacophony
of quacks and clucks and bleats, all those creatures
jostling inside enclosures as buyers squeezed
past farmers stooping bare-armed to trap a leg
or fan out a wing, shouting out pedigree, provenance
while goats danced on the roofs of their pens and children
scampered from chicks to rabbits and two young boys
pushed through the crowds with a black rooster
on a leash, jerking it behind them and when it
refused to move hauling it up by the neck, passers-by
turning to stare but no-one saying anything –
if you imagine it must have been noisy
you’d be wrong, it’s the silence I remember
as those boys dragged their black bird between us, over and over.
CAROLINE PRICE
If you imagine it would have been noisy, a cacophony
of quacks and clucks and bleats, all those creatures
jostling inside enclosures as buyers squeezed
past farmers stooping bare-armed to trap a leg
or fan out a wing, shouting out pedigree, provenance
while goats danced on the roofs of their pens and children
scampered from chicks to rabbits and two young boys
pushed through the crowds with a black rooster
on a leash, jerking it behind them and when it
refused to move hauling it up by the neck, passers-by
turning to stare but no-one saying anything –
if you imagine it must have been noisy
you’d be wrong, it’s the silence I remember
as those boys dragged their black bird between us, over and over.
CAROLINE PRICE
Second prize
DONA QUIXOTE TILTS AT WINDMILLS
after Gerda Saunders: ‘My Dementia’*
for G.S.
I’m on a quest to buy duvet covers from IKEA.
I have two maps, a set of directions printed in
BIG CAPITALS and a spirit guide who speaks
to me from the moving map on the dashboard.
At first it goes well. I negotiate the A.40 traffic
and slide easily into the swirling bowl
of the gyratory system, repeating the exit number
I need like a mantra.
Then a man in banana yellow sweatpants
in the slow lane work-gang reaches in
through the window of my eyes
and snatches it out of my brain.
Admonished by the spirit guide
(who has taken on a wheedling tone)
I lurch past two more exit signs fumbling
for the directions which have floated
into the footwell, finally succeeding
in snatching up a map only to find
it has morphed into an unfathomable
patchwork. I may never know
whether it’s missing the exit or the detour
round unexpected roadworks
that beaches me onto the shores of a field
of scrub grass and weary horses
but the one who limps away from his companions
is the perfect Rocinante. He stops beside the car
and, eye to eye, the two of us contemplate
the likelihood of finding our way home.
HILARY HARES
*First published in The Georgia Review 2013; accessed via www.slate.com
after Gerda Saunders: ‘My Dementia’*
for G.S.
I’m on a quest to buy duvet covers from IKEA.
I have two maps, a set of directions printed in
BIG CAPITALS and a spirit guide who speaks
to me from the moving map on the dashboard.
At first it goes well. I negotiate the A.40 traffic
and slide easily into the swirling bowl
of the gyratory system, repeating the exit number
I need like a mantra.
Then a man in banana yellow sweatpants
in the slow lane work-gang reaches in
through the window of my eyes
and snatches it out of my brain.
Admonished by the spirit guide
(who has taken on a wheedling tone)
I lurch past two more exit signs fumbling
for the directions which have floated
into the footwell, finally succeeding
in snatching up a map only to find
it has morphed into an unfathomable
patchwork. I may never know
whether it’s missing the exit or the detour
round unexpected roadworks
that beaches me onto the shores of a field
of scrub grass and weary horses
but the one who limps away from his companions
is the perfect Rocinante. He stops beside the car
and, eye to eye, the two of us contemplate
the likelihood of finding our way home.
HILARY HARES
*First published in The Georgia Review 2013; accessed via www.slate.com
Third prize
MARCEL PROUST VISITS THE BLACK COUNTRY
i) A cote du Jameson
Footfalls recede down the entry, listen;
the night reverberates with loneliness,
a train clanks, shunts the restless into sleep;
later, rain will fall softly
glazing the street, the roof tops,
decades will pass, this will remain
indelible as the smell of burning anthracite.
ii) Café
Pyramids of sponge glazed with raspberry jam
dipped in desiccated coconut
crowned with half a glace cherry;
every patisserie in Paris would quail
at the sight let alone the taste.
Round here this is called a madeleine;
opulence and don’t you forget it.
iii) Eglise
The accent goes missing at Evensong –
Stanford in C winging into the dark
and I am thinking of the kind boy
singing at my side for several years
a lifetime ago and in focus now
the fact that he was waiting patiently
to become Charlus’s lover.
iv) La petite phrase
Impossibly glamorous girls
with a film-star lips and summer names
framed by voluminous skirts;
their perfume is sweeter than cake –
hair lacquer, warm flesh, excitement
their nylons crackle with power.
After games we roll back carpet,
discover our tiny dance floor
where big sisters fling us Halfway
to paradisetime and again;
the tune saturates us like rain.
PETER WAKEFIELD
i) A cote du Jameson
Footfalls recede down the entry, listen;
the night reverberates with loneliness,
a train clanks, shunts the restless into sleep;
later, rain will fall softly
glazing the street, the roof tops,
decades will pass, this will remain
indelible as the smell of burning anthracite.
ii) Café
Pyramids of sponge glazed with raspberry jam
dipped in desiccated coconut
crowned with half a glace cherry;
every patisserie in Paris would quail
at the sight let alone the taste.
Round here this is called a madeleine;
opulence and don’t you forget it.
iii) Eglise
The accent goes missing at Evensong –
Stanford in C winging into the dark
and I am thinking of the kind boy
singing at my side for several years
a lifetime ago and in focus now
the fact that he was waiting patiently
to become Charlus’s lover.
iv) La petite phrase
Impossibly glamorous girls
with a film-star lips and summer names
framed by voluminous skirts;
their perfume is sweeter than cake –
hair lacquer, warm flesh, excitement
their nylons crackle with power.
After games we roll back carpet,
discover our tiny dance floor
where big sisters fling us Halfway
to paradisetime and again;
the tune saturates us like rain.
PETER WAKEFIELD
Commended
(in alphabetical order of poet's surname)
ON THE EDGE OF A LAVA FIELD
Before we created God
the earth exploded black ash
and the mountains rose up
like crinkled skin.
I stare in awe
as mud bubbles and steams
and the ground oozes ochre and pink patterns
from millennia -
before we created God.
Before we created God
water carved time into rock.
I stand in the shade of ferns
that were the first plants on earth,
looking down as bugs
jig on a jacuzzi of lava
and tiny green mosses
cling at the edge of the heat
as they did
before we created God.
Before we created God
there was only the call of animals
and the sound of birds.
Forests ruled the land
and the sea was a soup of secrets
that are still hidden.
We are like specks of dust
in the library of the world
And so we created God.
DIANA BELL
THE WINTER COTTAGE
After Interior by Carl Larsson 1890
A young boy in a black woollen hat
looks at me as if I’ve said no
to going out to play. This afternoon
he must stay inside, sit still as held air
while his family work on
and the painter eases snow-light
over the low room. I imagine a tiled
enamel stove burning in a corner to keep
spinning and knitting hands moving
take the chill off the brushed wooden floor.
To the left a young woman in a vermilion scarf
stops to pare fruit, a dog begs at the feet
of little Suzanne, and every wall glows
in trompe-l’oeil – biblical and bright.
By the window beyond burnt-orange rugs
folded over old knees, two rifles hang
the way I might place a mirror
or a bowl of lilies.
KERRY DARBISHIRE
THE BARLEY MOW
Chalkboards outside promise
a free half with every pint before six thirty
plus an every-other-Wednesday karaoke opportunity
for Mick Webster’s Sinatra turn.
He’s pretty smooth is Mick although
he doesn’t do Strangers in the Night these days,
nor Luck Be A Lady ever since she turned out such a bitch,
but his My Way is punchier than ever.
Leanne’s throaty Cher always raises a cheer.
She’s a trouper: jogs over with her terrier,
changes in the Ladies, hair tinted to match her latest jumpsuit,
the turquoise looks amazing.
Newcomers mostly, wisely, sit and listen
though a couple of second home owners
who like to feel they really belong have been known to duet
Scarborough Fair to polite applause.
And then there was that time the new lady curate
“do call me Karen” popped in for a medium Pinot Grigio spritzer
and rocked a raunchy Hey Big Spender
in her cassock.
SUE FORRESTER
THIS IS NOT A PRAISE POEM
After Pippa Little’s ‘not a praise song’
but I praise the woman in the turquoise sari
conversant with the laws of physics
whose babies have been lost in the love match
with her cousin
and who must chop and fry,
sweep and creep,
in the house of her husband’s family
and I praise the teacher of thirty children
who scrubs and washes on her one day off
and sharp faced woman with a satin rope of hair
enduring the wind baggery
and bray-bray-bray of her boss
and the way he checks his messages
while steering the company jeep round hair-pin bends
and I praise the child who carries water
for five miles in a gallon plastic container
from a shrinking stream
while her brothers josh and bark their way through school
buy cheap whiskey from the state liquor store
piss it up against the wall
CAROLINE GILFILLAN
NIGHT FLICK
The enterprising daughter of a friend
has moved into the salt cavern
under our house and started
an arts cinema. Her father projects
a threaded cormorant star-ward, where it dives
in Pisces and rises to tread air
holding a pearl. Reeled in, this s-sea fowl
f-flickers to a reptile rhythm
and I find myself at attention, sweaty
from the hotel bed. 23:32. Time to consider
clothes but the pulsing stops. I lie down
still to attention; two blackbirds call,
a moon sets in Gemini. Twin ravens
guard an oak door before me; it croaks
open both ways. Ushered through, I find a seat
and settle down for the trailers.
RICHARD MORWOOD
Before we created God
the earth exploded black ash
and the mountains rose up
like crinkled skin.
I stare in awe
as mud bubbles and steams
and the ground oozes ochre and pink patterns
from millennia -
before we created God.
Before we created God
water carved time into rock.
I stand in the shade of ferns
that were the first plants on earth,
looking down as bugs
jig on a jacuzzi of lava
and tiny green mosses
cling at the edge of the heat
as they did
before we created God.
Before we created God
there was only the call of animals
and the sound of birds.
Forests ruled the land
and the sea was a soup of secrets
that are still hidden.
We are like specks of dust
in the library of the world
And so we created God.
DIANA BELL
THE WINTER COTTAGE
After Interior by Carl Larsson 1890
A young boy in a black woollen hat
looks at me as if I’ve said no
to going out to play. This afternoon
he must stay inside, sit still as held air
while his family work on
and the painter eases snow-light
over the low room. I imagine a tiled
enamel stove burning in a corner to keep
spinning and knitting hands moving
take the chill off the brushed wooden floor.
To the left a young woman in a vermilion scarf
stops to pare fruit, a dog begs at the feet
of little Suzanne, and every wall glows
in trompe-l’oeil – biblical and bright.
By the window beyond burnt-orange rugs
folded over old knees, two rifles hang
the way I might place a mirror
or a bowl of lilies.
KERRY DARBISHIRE
THE BARLEY MOW
Chalkboards outside promise
a free half with every pint before six thirty
plus an every-other-Wednesday karaoke opportunity
for Mick Webster’s Sinatra turn.
He’s pretty smooth is Mick although
he doesn’t do Strangers in the Night these days,
nor Luck Be A Lady ever since she turned out such a bitch,
but his My Way is punchier than ever.
Leanne’s throaty Cher always raises a cheer.
She’s a trouper: jogs over with her terrier,
changes in the Ladies, hair tinted to match her latest jumpsuit,
the turquoise looks amazing.
Newcomers mostly, wisely, sit and listen
though a couple of second home owners
who like to feel they really belong have been known to duet
Scarborough Fair to polite applause.
And then there was that time the new lady curate
“do call me Karen” popped in for a medium Pinot Grigio spritzer
and rocked a raunchy Hey Big Spender
in her cassock.
SUE FORRESTER
THIS IS NOT A PRAISE POEM
After Pippa Little’s ‘not a praise song’
but I praise the woman in the turquoise sari
conversant with the laws of physics
whose babies have been lost in the love match
with her cousin
and who must chop and fry,
sweep and creep,
in the house of her husband’s family
and I praise the teacher of thirty children
who scrubs and washes on her one day off
and sharp faced woman with a satin rope of hair
enduring the wind baggery
and bray-bray-bray of her boss
and the way he checks his messages
while steering the company jeep round hair-pin bends
and I praise the child who carries water
for five miles in a gallon plastic container
from a shrinking stream
while her brothers josh and bark their way through school
buy cheap whiskey from the state liquor store
piss it up against the wall
CAROLINE GILFILLAN
NIGHT FLICK
The enterprising daughter of a friend
has moved into the salt cavern
under our house and started
an arts cinema. Her father projects
a threaded cormorant star-ward, where it dives
in Pisces and rises to tread air
holding a pearl. Reeled in, this s-sea fowl
f-flickers to a reptile rhythm
and I find myself at attention, sweaty
from the hotel bed. 23:32. Time to consider
clothes but the pulsing stops. I lie down
still to attention; two blackbirds call,
a moon sets in Gemini. Twin ravens
guard an oak door before me; it croaks
open both ways. Ushered through, I find a seat
and settle down for the trailers.
RICHARD MORWOOD
HEBRIDEAN ROSES
After Winifred Nicholson
I’d like to be the bluebell on Winifred’s
windowsill, have my moment of being
observed. How I fit in with the others,
how light refracts from my petals.
I would like to be the one in front,
on the right, that leads the observer
with a nod to the fields beyond
the open window, the shoreline,
sea. I’d like to feel the breeze
nudge my head against a rose,
smell her breath. I’d like to
hear the hush of paint brushed
onto a canvas, see myself change colour
when clouds come, feel the frisson of completion.
The standing back, looking through half-closed eyes. The smile.
MAGGIE REED
After Winifred Nicholson
I’d like to be the bluebell on Winifred’s
windowsill, have my moment of being
observed. How I fit in with the others,
how light refracts from my petals.
I would like to be the one in front,
on the right, that leads the observer
with a nod to the fields beyond
the open window, the shoreline,
sea. I’d like to feel the breeze
nudge my head against a rose,
smell her breath. I’d like to
hear the hush of paint brushed
onto a canvas, see myself change colour
when clouds come, feel the frisson of completion.
The standing back, looking through half-closed eyes. The smile.
MAGGIE REED