William Connor

Winner - 2015

“I LOVE WHAT CECIL DAY LEWIS SAID ABOUT POETRY: THAT HE DOES NOT WRITE POEMS TO BE UNDERSTOOD, BUT TO UNDERSTAND.

“I never chose to be a poet, and I certainly don’t sit down to tell the world something I know about. Usually, all I am aware of is a kind of wind-still, then a welling up in my chest. When I go for a run, strange bits of syntax, descriptions, lines might rise up from somewhere. Then, if I am lucky, these fragments will collapse into a poem. To me, reading and writing poems is like a opening a window out into an unseen world behind the ordinary one, perhaps the same world our dreams are filmed in. When I open that window, I am searching for something; sometimes I am fed, I rest, or am exquisitely disturbed. I am always left wanting more.”

Gran

After they had lifted her onto the wheeled trolley

and smoothed over her face

a starched sheet like pastry

Lu, dad and I drove to Upper Hutt

we wandered together and alone up the main street

looking for something still open

spools of perished air

stretching then bunched between us

the Chinese baker’s son

fat with glasses and a plastic gun

sat and shot with spitty sounds

at formica chairs

we finished off cold quiche

waited for the eftpos machine

by custard squares under cling film

I made the afternoon train

2am

last night in the dead of the night

I woke and sleep lay broken on the bed

you had woken too

and though neither of us spoke

we could have spoken

about something other

that we knew

that we have felt for some days now

but not seen

we saw it last night

with eyes behind our eyes

eyes that had not been sleeping

that were sharpened by the dark

we could have reached across the bed

with the hands inside our hands

what would have then been said,

sober, quiet, immense and frightening,

might have forded this white water

might have been a glimpse of stone

a breathless leap together

or a word to shut off all sound