THE STORY INC PRIZE FOR POETRY

In 2002 Story Inc endowed a poetry 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 might have been paid to copyright holders of the quotations used in “Wall of Words” installation, who generously agreed to waive their fees in favour of a collective donation to an appropriate charity.

The 2009 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.