Sponsorship

THE STORY INC PRIZE FOR POETRY

In 2002, Story Inc endowed a prize to be awarded each year to the best poetry folio produced in the Institute of Modern Letters poetry workshops at Victoria University. Part of the endowment for the prize comes from combining the individual royalties that would have been paid to copyright holders of the quotations used in the Wall of Words installation. They generously waived their fees in favour of a collective donation to an appropriate charity.

The winner for 2012 was Alex Mitcalfe Wilson

“I believe that poetry is a means of engaging intensively with the complexity of our world. I value the space it provides to approach fascinating, difficult and rewarding topics in novel ways. To me, poetry is thought and language working as hard as they can, together; something I find both exhilarating and exhausting!”

This poem was inspired by an exhibition of photographs by Japanese photographer
Kohei Yoshiyuki at the Adam Art Gallery in Wellington.


YOSHIYUKI,
after THE PARK by Kohei Yoshiyuki

Our eyes strobed with flashing red
we see branches lit like tunnels
and thus we too are watching
each touching the others, as in pictures
the man the men each holding
for a moment and each not receding

unlike the moment, they too are receding
not knowing and not ashamed by red
lights growing in camera, not holding
the light, letting it strobe the grass and tunnel
the flash bulb recording serial pictures
holding back dark in watching

but not this darkness, under fences watching
nor any in plastic sheaths receding,
caught blank in leaving picture
houses so white grained, the light that red
still embers burning outside the tunnels
inside the park, inside the man still holding

the man beside the tree still holding
but not naming, not by anything but men watching
and mouths; the mouth on him eclipsing tunnels
and all the glow dimming on him receding
this eye memory of names once read
still fading, now framing pictures

of those bananas pink, white like pictures
growing leaves, this bark for a moment holding
light and some bodies lit invisible red
by cold bulbs breaking; still watching
the men the women the branches receding
the men the two lights shining back in two tunnels

with the black and light still dark, these tunnels
not ashamed; even of themselves, we picture
no memory in these instants, grappled and receding,
now withdrawn and no more holding
the flash the experience or light of watching;
only here as light and as light knowing this red

and this receding, pulling smoked from those tunnels
the green grass red, in light of these pictures
the grains fast, holding hands in this watching


The winner for 2011 was Ruth Upperton

Ruth studies law and English in Wellington. Her areas of interest are rhyme, statutory drafting and litigation.


The prosecution

he loosed the boat that sank the ship
he muttered swears and gave us lip

he took sweet cherries from the girls
he swallowed whole the summer pearls

he took white sailboats from the boys
he gave the dead a waking voice

he shook the baby in the cot
he left the cabbages to rot

he spat into the casserole
he left the dreamer down the hole

he smashed the glass-spun hummingbird
he wouldn’t use the magic word

he took our tongues and gave us lies
he made the graveman improvise

he slapped the spinster in the face
he broke the boy who won the race

he disembowelled the sacred cow
he said to us, start running now

he dyed the wedding dresses red
he filled the old man’s head with lead

and this is why we want him dead
and this is why we want him dead


Song about a child

The dog is a book read over and over.
The dog is a river, it’s stopping for no one.
The dog is a child who thinks hot is a colour.

The book is a dog that hasn’t been walked.
The book is a river that cannot be forded.
The book is a child, maintaining stern silence.

The river is a dog, running past hillsides.
The river is books spilt down a staircase.
The river is a child, it refuses to play with you.

The child is a dog sniffing at thistles.
The child is a book that hasn’t been written.
The child is a river running under a river.

The child is the dog and the dog is the river.
The book is a book about children in winter.
The dog barks a book at the edge of the river.
Dog, sings the child, sings it over and over.


Animate elements

You’re very sexy for a heretic,
walking in a heretic manner.
I forgot the prophylactic,
you forgot to bring your camera.
The elements watch us below.
They start the fall of hectic snow.

We trade smiles with a passing funeral,
note the sapling’s sticky anger.
Churches, benches, fields are carnal.
Cities speak and streetlights banter.
The elements crow They don’t know!
They’re filling us with baleful snow.

You and I forget to start
in avenues so cutely callous.
The clouds sensibly depart.
The sun’s becoming jealous.
It’s elementary stuff to know;
one day soon the snow will go.

We walk through the animate streets,
wishing only we were talking.
Eftpos machines hand out receipts;
windows, doorways, cars are gawping.

The wind sings a song so apropos,
the alleys collect what we outgrow,
the elements treasure the status quo.
They hold us wrapped in animate snow.


The winner for 2010 was Ishmael Doney

Clock Time

Sleep is tugging at the place where my hand should
be working. The pull and push of sleep time.
Thick breakfast air and thin breakfast light
take turns in my senses. I am
the late bus from table to
chair, head nodding to the
cold sound of waking
slowly.
I am
out in
loud, sun steps,
dropping sleep sleeves,
and picking up clock
time. Standing and stretching
into midday trees. Racing
concrete to sidewalk and not quite
caring. Morning sprawls out through the day,
making me crawl back into bed before evening even arrives.


The winner for 2009 was Hera Bradburn

hera bradburn


Things which can be held.

There are hands born
to shadow walls with the bright motions of birds.

There are birds born
to unpick skies with small hooked beaks.

In the cold of the kitchen, braiding wooden stems in patient wreaths.
We trim the stems diagonally, suspend life briefly.

Your breath catches on nothing, these fine folds of flesh
curl our throats with the force of what’s spoken.

There are things that can be held in this life,
and maybe you will be the one to hold them.


Jaime.

His cardigan is still hanging by the door where he left it
hooked like a fish. Its neck is an open mouth
gasping.

You lay your face against the surface of the kitchen table
the polished grain, the dark veins of trees.
It too was once growing.


Marguerite.

Those friends of her body, those rusting cells
that strike together like Christmas bells
are ringing themselves out.

The sky can no longer focus itself.
The curtains are as dark as the trees.
The trees are as dark as the curtains.

Her linen is frightening
tight and winding.
Eventually
everything folds.


The 2008 winner was Cruzanne Macalister

“Writing binds tgether my love of observation, humanity and the perennial truths that pervade how the universe unfolds. Having said that, I find that my poetry really allowed me to be conversational and contemporary, taking a more light hearted approach to the deeper philosophical issues that poetry often explores.”

 

 

chagrin

I like the taste of new words:
facetious and verbose
both ambidextrous
in their verisimilitude of flavour
white then chagrin. It jarred -
at first I never heard it, or saw
it written down, then all at once
cupfuls filled my novels
and newspaper sections
and I tried it out in casual company
sipping, shyly,
much to their chagrin, of course,
and mispronounced it, once,
or twice, chay-grin.

I told my sister,
she’s been sipping with chagrin
at the God Delusion,

we both think Richard Dawkins is a tad
white misanthropic


take heed

I felt the earth quake tonight,
I was outside on a plastic chair
I was on the phone
I was bitching about lust lost and money spent
I was complaining about temperature and temperament
I was clutching snotty tissues
I was wanting and not having
I was hungry and full of chicken and peas
I was hearing myself echoing inanely and lonely
I was tired of time scooting past me while
I was holding mugs of tea and empty comforts
white and the earth shook
to remind me I was stepping on its coattails
and how good it is to live in a wooden house.


Nested

The last one to lie
through the dark with my
sighs, used my foot
like a telephone –

our platonic bodies
shifting for self
comfort.

And now my ears may have
folded
as I slept.

I’ll hold the delicate
pulsing tight between
my temples and eyelids -

and feel like a bird
once
nested and feathered
against a boulder,

you rolled over,
and I left

to gather no moss.