Now in its 25th year, the Strokestown International Poetry Competition is delighted to announce the shortlist for this year’s competition, judged by acclaimed poet Rachael Hegarty. The following five poems and poets have been selected and are presented below, listed in alphabetical order:
Amy Barry A House of Daughters
Marian Brannigan The Strayaway Child
Catherine Ann Cullen The Mother
Conor McAnally Kindred Spirits
Tom Noone Kingfisher
Rachael Hegarty, this year’s judge, commented:
“What a delight to read the near 700 entries for the Strokestown International Poetry Competition– proof positive that poetry is alive and well on and off the island of Ireland. What a bittersweet honour to have to choose only five poems out of a treasure trove of wonderous poetic forms, sing-song metres and a grand variety of topics. However, the five finalists shone brighter in their image rich forms and enchanted this reader with their musicality.”
All five poets will be invited to read on Sunday 3 May at the Strokestown International Poetry Festival where judge Rachael Hegarty will announce the winner.
1.
A House of Daughters
A House of Daughters
Guangdong, 1947
Downstairs, tea was poured.
The radio crackled with an old opera —
women dying beautifully, again.
The child turned in her arms,
wet and silent, but certainly alive.
She smelled of blood and milk,
and something older than both:
the damp ledger of history.
Girls carried misfortune, he said,
as if famine had a gender.
As if hunger chose a body
or war hadn’t already taken
his mother’s name and kept it.
She wrapped the girl tight,
as if her arms might alter the world.
Not a rebellion.
Something firmer,
like a kind of record.
Proof that once — here —
a girl arrived and was loved. Amy Barry
2.
The Strayaway Child
The Strayaway Child
i.m. Maggie Barry
Me Da always said
music was born in me.
He didn’t teach me much,
only C chord on banjo,
After that, I was on me own.
I left home at sixteen
in love with music and singing.
I mind me mother’s words,
‘keep yourself indoors at night’.
I sang at fairs and market squares,
Dundalk, Castleblayney, Cavan,
to earn a few shillings
for a roof over my head.
Had a song for every county,
The Galway Shawl, My Lagan Love,
The Turfman from Ardee.
On stage in Carnegie Hall,
I sang those same songs.
I never wore lipstick,
liked to be ordinary. Marian Brannigan
3.
The Mother
It happened in Tralee during the War.
Nora, in the terror of pregnancy,
risked telling her family.
Her mother asked no questions.
For months, she padded herself out,
let her apron strings strain
over extra layers of clothes.
She hooked and eyed Nora
into a corset
in the last trimester.
When the time came,
Mary delivered her granddaughter
in the marriage bed,
then struggled into
Nora’s bloody nightdress
and called the doctor.
It was late evening.
The old man came
with his scuffed leather bag.
He looked the baby over,
thought perhaps the mother
could use a tonic.
The prescription was scrawled
and handed to Nora,
sitting dazed in the bedchair.
Next morning, she cycled to the chemist,
her rickety high nelly
faltering over every rut in the road.
The people she met
were heartstruck at her pale face
but gamely asked how her new sister was doing.
It happened in many places and times,
and in Tralee
during the War. Catherine Ann Cullen
4.
KINDRED SPIRITS
Tonight I saw nine feathers
Stainless in their steel
Nestled in the lush Cork grass
Glistening in the sheen
Of a low setting sun
The same grass
That turned our mouths green
When potatoes and the British empire failed us
Here beside an estuary
A monument to grace
A remind that in darkest times
We are one human race
A tribute to the empathy
Of the Chocktaw nation
Who understood our fears
From marching their own trail of tears
And having lost their sacred land
Been driven from their homes
They trudged the hopeless roads
Through death’s greedy moan
And somehow heard our starving bodies
Tried to help our hungered souls
Tonight I bow my head in thanks
For this nine feathered food bowl Conor McAnally
5.
Kingfisher
We caught nothing but fouled
our baits on weeds and took
home nothing but the miracle
blue flash of a kingfisher.
All night his wings
flickered blue while I flew
across sleep with the unearthly
bird’s view of the river. Tom Noone